picking at scabs
by SquishyCool
Summary: Can someone like Daryl learn how to swallow his pride and stop repeating the same mistakes over and over? Can someone like Beth learn to fight off her demons and allow him to get close enough to hurt her again? Even after everything they've put each other through? Picking a scab will leave a scar, but they both have so many scars already... what's a few more? AU with smut.
1. prologue

It was those big, blue eyes.

From the first moment he saw her, he knew he didn't stand a chance. Those baby blues melted him into a puddle where he stood, wrapping a thick thread around both of his wrists that repeatedly dragged him back to her. And there was no way out of the stormy sea that her gaze had pulled him into.

They were hiding an awful lot of pain, though, those cornflower blues. Pain and torment and loneliness and anger. Maybe that was the other thread that had wrapped around his wrists and dragged him down into her personal abyss.

Or maybe it was the softness of her lips. Or the sweet lilt of her melodic voice. Or the smoothness of her milky white skin. Maybe it was the way her silky, golden hair tangled in his fingers. Or it might've been the way her body interlocked with his; the way that the sharp bones of her pelvis seemed to soften as they melded against his, or the way that the crook of her neck welcomed the side of his face and weathered it from harm. Maybe it was even the way she smelled… like lilacs on an early summer morning with the faintest hint of rainwater and freshly-mown grass.

Or maybe it was just the fact that both of their jagged, broken pieces fit together; that they didn't clang or grind against each other, or pry apart in painful separation.

In actuality, and with every last harsh sense of reality that he was ready to accept, it was the _comfort_. It was the sense of home and familiarity. It was the soft and quiet voice that whispered to them both as his arms wrapped around her and her hips bucked up into his.

And it whispered repetitively: _This is home. This is where we're supposed to be. This is what we're used to. This is what makes us feel safe._

Even though, in a whole other sense of harsh reality, he knew that they were both the farthest thing from _safe_. Neither of them was _home_ for the other. He had nothing to offer her but more pain. And she wasn't willing to give him anything more than tepid doubt. Not anymore, not after everything. That much had been made clear.

Yet… he couldn't shake it. He couldn't convince himself that he was supposed to be anywhere else. He couldn't stop it. Most importantly, he couldn't stop _himself_.

And it seemed that she couldn't either.

Or maybe she had no desire to. He began wondering to himself if she was some kind of sadist. But then he realized she was more like a masochist.

After a while, he'd decided she was somewhere in between both of those definitions. And consequently, so was he.

But goddammit, how was he supposed to just up and _stop_ loving her?

He couldn't. Nor did he _want_ to.


	2. heartbeat I

**A/N: **I've had this half-formed plot bunny in my head for years. There are a handful of songs that contributed to said plot and I said to myself, "I want to write something that _feels_ like that song _sounds_." So here's my attempt at that, because I can no longer hold off. I have to try and get it out of my head!  
First up: "Heartbeat" by Childish Gambino.

* * *

**heartbeat I**

The bar was packed for a Saturday night. It didn't matter, though, because he could spot her in a crowd from a mile away. Over the countless heads of patrons, squeezed between nameless bodies, he spotted her sitting at the bar. She was perched on a stool, overwhelmed with the numerous strangers crowding around her and invading her personal space.

She was alone.

He squeezed his way through the crowd, not bothering to mutter pointless "excuse me"s or "sorry"s as he made his way toward the bar. The music blared around him, muffling most of the conversations. There was still a chorus of drunken voices rising above the sounds of the speakers, calling for friends and laughing and talking loudly. It was all background noise anymore.

She didn't raise her head when he approached, let alone acknowledge his presence right beside her. He hadn't expected her to.

In the split second before she noticed that he was there, he glanced over the surface before her and spotted the familiar sight of her bright yellow phone case sitting beside a half-empty glass of amber liquid. Her phone was turned face down, silent and still. Her whiskey was nearly gone. And when her eyes met his, he could see that she was in dire need of another drink.

Those cornflower blues setting their sights directly on him spurred an emotion in him that felt a lot like spotting a familiar face in a foreign country. Not that he would know what that felt like – but he could imagine.

"You're only around when I don't want you ta be, huh?"

_Ouch_. Those words seared his skin, hitting his ears like hot metal. But he quickly brushed them off. His stomach turned and quickly settled, reflexively forming steel around itself.

"Ain't that part a the definition of a '_ghost'_?" He quipped.

He returned her gaze with a steely blue stare of his own, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a hard line. She shrunk in her seat, quickly looking away and down at her glass. Then she lifted it to her lips and poured the remaining liquid down her throat, swallowing, blinking, and setting the glass back down decisively in one swift motion. The taste didn't make her wince anymore. She didn't even scrunch up her nose like she used to.

"Yer not drivin', are you?" She asked.

He shook his head, watching the side of her face as she continued to avoid his gaze. "Nah. Walked."

A few seconds of silence – and the anxiety that usually accompanied silence. She was trying to wave down the bartender, empty glass in hand.

When the bartender finally made his way down to her, she pushed the empty glass into his hands and eyed the wall of liquor behind him.

"Two shots of Jaeger – and two whiskey-an'-Cokes. Please."

* * *

The music seemed to fade away behind them, even though it hadn't grown any quieter. One stupid hip-hop song after the next, he almost couldn't stand it. And, if anything, the noisy crowd inside the bar had grown larger and rowdier. The night was getting later and people were getting drunker, more obnoxious.

_Fucking college kids,_ he thought. _Why do I come to this stupid college bar?_

That was a dumb question to ask himself. He knew exactly why. She was the only reason he did a lot of things.

Yet her voice was loud in his ears. She was the only person or sound that he was able to focus on amongst the ever-shifting, reckless crowd surrounding them.

"So, what – you come here ta rub it all in my face? You wanna taunt me an' give me more reasons to wanna throw in the _fuckin_' towel?" He could already detect the aggravated slur in her words and he certainly didn't miss the way she turned her wrist upwards, meaningfully flashing the thick scar on her wrist in his direction.

But his stomach was made of steel. And so was his spine. His entire body was hardened and shielded in strong, impenetrable armor. Her spiteful remark bounced off his skin, taking only a brief moment to seep into his brain.

"'Course not. That was… I never intended fer that. _Nothin'_ like that." He wanted to be angry at first – how _dare_ she use her own _life_ against him in such a manner.

But it was a lot harder than he'd thought. He couldn't bring himself to hurl back the hurtful words, not when his core felt so soft and vulnerable in her presence. His armor might have been rigid and unyielding, but beneath that was a wounded carcass, constantly bleeding with the need for _something_ more. Something he'd never been able to identify and still couldn't. Something that constantly grazed his fingertips whenever he was in her proximity, yet always fluttered just out of his grasp.

Even over the background noise, he could hear the knot in her throat as she scoffed. And he recognized the way she kept her eyes focused on the glass in front of her, refusing to glance over and meet his gaze. "Then why're you here? Why would you waste yer time on… _me_? You got a lot better things ta do."

This time, her words didn't sear his skin. No, they burned right through and impaled his chest. Sharp and bitter, bringing to life the heavy guilt in his gut. But he bit back the pain and tightened his grip on the glass in front of him.

Two empty shot glasses sat on the bar between them. He found himself wishing for eternal moments like the one they'd shared a few minutes ago: both of them raising a shot glass and making a cheer to '_leaving assholes where assholes belong,_' tapping their glasses together and downing doses of tart Jaegermeister until their throats burned and their eyes reflexively squeezed shut.

But that moment had passed all too quickly, and now they were sitting side-by-side at the bar with half-empty Jack-and-Cokes in hand while drunken college kids buzzed around them and two overworked bartenders struggled to keep up with the ruckus and demand.

"You _know_ I still care about you. I jus' – ain't never been good at showin' it… the _right_ way."

The same pathetic excuse he'd been using for the last several months? Well, it had worked this long. So why not? Not like he had a better way to explain it. Not like there was another way to justify _any_ of it.

"Coulda fooled me," she said simply. Her eyes finally lifted and met his.

And when they did, he wished they hadn't. He found himself stuck to the barstool where he sat, frozen in place, all of his muscles going rigid. A feeling like cold water began to rush through his veins, starting at the back of his neck and ending at the bottoms of his feet. His heart skipped and hovered inside his chest. He couldn't bring himself to look away from her, not even at the glass of whiskey that he was raising to his lips.

"There's no _wrong_ way ta show it, you just…" She paused, then sighed. Her eyelids fluttered down and back up in a slow and thoughtful blink before she finished, "You gotta care about… _more_ than that. You gotta _try_. Just once in a while, you really gotta put _effort_ in. Ya know?"

The look she gave him was one of both expectance and indignation. His mouth was still set in a hard line and he nodded, then raised his glass and poured the last drops down his throat. He reveled in the weightlessness that surged through his veins and lifted his skull – the alcohol was doing its job of making him even more indestructible than he usually was. Especially in the current circumstances.

"Right – all that _effort_," he mumbled, not even bothering to stifle the resentful tone that echoed in his voice. He knew she could hear it over the noisy crowd around them, too. "Like I ain't never done _shit_ for ya. Or fer _us_. Like I never _showed _ya I care. Yeah, I oughta go back an' get myself a job on a farm, that it? Oughta start carin' more about my mama an' my – "

"Stop it," she interjected sharply, blue eyes turning icy. "You _know_ that's not what I meant. Stop – stop usin' all that _against_ me. You _always_ do this… How many times do I gotta tell you that he's not _better_ than you? That it isn't always _about_ you?"

He chewed on the tip of his thumb and swallowed back the argument that wanted to burst from his mouth. The anger and resentment was coming to life in the pit of his stomach and he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it contained.

"As many times as it takes ta convince me, I guess," he said begrudgingly. "Which you can never do… How you gonna tell me it ain't _about_ me when you willingly _chose_ him – "

"I'm _not_ gonna listen to this," she let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "I didn't _do _the choosing, _you_ did. And if you wanna sit here and drink with me, then sit here an' _drink_ with me. Otherwise – well, honestly, you can _leave_… I don't _give _a fuck anymore."

He narrowed his eyes and looked away from her fingers tightening around the glass in her hand, her knuckles turning white.

"I know you don't… 's why I'm here."

And he did. He knew full good and well that she did _not_ give a fuck, and that if he pushed her far enough, she'd pay her tab and leave without another word. And he wasn't sure he could handle watching her hips sway as they always did while her slender legs carried her away from him. He wasn't sure his rusty armor could stand the force of her rejection one more time, the bottomless feeling that he was always left with as he was forced to watch her wade through a crowd and leave him, like a parade of his own loss slowly receding in his vision. Every time felt like watching all the good he'd ever been allowed to have in his life walking away and leaving him forever.

"I ain't goin' nowhere," Daryl reiterated in a low grumble.

Beth scoffed and flashed him a side-eyed glance, spitting her retort like venom: "Not _this _time, anyway."

He bit down hard on his lip and told himself that he deserved that one. She'd more than earned it.

Whatever sour-tasting words he had to swallow back, he would. As long as it meant she wouldn't walk away from him. As long as it meant she wouldn't make him spend the entire night alone.

* * *

Her phone didn't vibrate the entire time they sat together at the bar. He saw her checking it every now and then, usually while she was waiting for another drink, but she never seemed _happier_ afterward. He wanted to ask, wanted to pry and be nosey and overstep those lines once more just because he knew he could. But he didn't. Instead, he looked away and downed his whiskey drinks, one after the other.

As the liquor flowed and the crowd continued moving around them, he asked her how her daddy was doing and if she'd heard from her sister at all. He asked how work was going and if she was still enjoying school. He asked about her friends - the ones whose names he could remember, anyway - and inquired on the boyfriends and girlfriends and fiances that he might've met once or twice in a distant memory. He didn't really care about any of that, though. Maybe about her daddy - he'd always respected that old man. But all the other shit was nothing more than fodder. He was simply doing everything he could to avoid asking about the stuff he _actually _wanted to know about.

Then the tension ebbed away as alcohol coursed through their veins and their conversation reached that peak, that familiar and comfortable place where he felt like they were the only two people in the world. And he hung on her every word, feeling his mouth curve into smiles without reluctance for a change. And he uttered every word, asked every question, mumbled every statement that might make her soft, pink lips turn upward, until she was smiling and looking at him - _only _him and nothing else. Until he could feel the heaviness in his chest slowly becoming lighter, and the anger that he'd held so close mere hours before was no longer anything more than an absurd overreaction that he couldn't remember the reasoning for. It didn't even seem to _matter_ anymore.

Not when she was sitting so close and she smelled so good and her clothes were so tight in all the right places and her hair was so perfect, as usual, and begging to have his fingers running through it. Not when her hand was touching his atop the surface of the bar, milky white skin even softer than he remembered. Not when her girlish giggles were sending bolts of electricity up and down his arms and legs, making his breath hitch in his chest every time the sound hit his ears.

He could've listened to her talk for hours, sitting and sharing quiet inside jokes with each other, reminiscing on fond memories and laughing about people they hadn't spoken to in years. A shot here, a few more drinks there, another shot. The bartender announced Last Call but most of the crowd had already dissipated. There was only a handful of patrons left. Not that either of them had noticed except for brief bathroom breaks.

She ordered them beers to finish the night and he slid his debit card to the bartender before she could pick up the tab. She objected at first, but then she shrugged it off and rolled her eyes. They downed their beers together, all the while he was internally praying that he could follow her home or take her with him. His heart rabbited with dread at the thought that it wouldn't happen. That their night would end outside the door of this stupid college bar. That he would have to go home and lie alone in bed with a head full of unspoken words and unanswered questions. The very idea made his stomach turn and ache with a hollow _need_.

His arms were suddenly itching to be wrapped around her small frame. But he resisted. He stole light touches of her pale hands and her dainty wrists and told himself it was enough. For now.

Before the bartender could tell them to hit the bricks, they slipped out the front, zipping up their coats and letting out a collective sigh as the cold air hit their faces and the stench of booze and body odor was replaced with the stench of the city. He didn't get a chance to ask her how she was getting home. As he placed a cigarette between his lips and fumbled around in his pocket for a lighter, she stepped in closer until they were arm-to-arm, waiting for him to light the cigarette. Once he'd exhaled the first small puff of smoke and glanced over at her, she began walking away. For a second, he froze and watched her, about to call out her name.

Then she paused and turned her head to flash him an expectant smile and a slight nod of the head. He took the cue and stepped up to walk beside her. And then they were striding down the sidewalk, away from the bar, arms brushing every couple of steps. Her hands were shoved into the pockets of her coat, and he was fighting the urge to reach over and pull one out, to clasp it tightly in his. It was like a habit, or muscle memory. It felt wrong to be walking with her and _not _holding hands.

They walked in silence for a couple of minutes, her head on a swivel as she observed the city nightlife buzzing around them while he nervously smoked the cigarette that was pinched between his fingers and watched her from the corner of his eye. Then she smiled, whiskey glowing bright in her red cheeks, and started talking about some funny story from a while back. Something that he remembered but didn't really want to remember. At least not right now.

Suddenly, her hand was held out before him, fingers pointing toward his cigarette, and he looked over to meet her gaze. "Lemme get a couple hits off that."

Without hesitating, he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and carefully passed the half-burned cigarette into her waiting fingers. Her smile grew wider with satisfaction and he watched as she placed the butt up to her lips and took a careful puff.

He was immediately reminded of how it used to annoy him when she'd ask for a hit off his cigarettes. He would always tell her, _"No, you can have a cigarette, but this one's mine."_ And she'd whine a little and say, _"But I don't __**want **__a whole cigarette, I just want a couple puffs of yours." _And he'd grunt in frustration and say, _"Well, __**I **__want a whole cigarette."_ But those days were long gone. He didn't feel an ounce of annoyance this time. Just a deep longing for something that was well and over with. And right now, he was pretty sure that he wouldn't mind if she wanted to smoke half of every single cigarette he ever smoked for the rest of his life. He'd gladly share.

"You heard from yer brother lately?" She half-slurred before inhaling her third hearty puff of nicotine. Bloodshot blue eyes flicked over and met his.

His fingers were fidgeting against his leg, antsy to get the cigarette back. He wanted to light another one. Didn't even care what she might say about his 'chain-smoking.' "Yeah. A little."

"Is he doin' okay? How much more time's he got left?" She inquired, and he couldn't tell if she was genuinely curious or if she was just trying to be polite and act like she gave a shit after they basically sat and talked about her for the last few hours.

He shrugged. "Nine years. Five if he's real good. We'll see if he can make it that long, though - he's gettin' old an' cranky."

"He's _always _been cranky," she chuckled.

He smirked, unable to disagree. _But not old. And I ain't far behind him..._

She handed back the cigarette, though it was practically burned down to the butt. He took a quick hit off of it, a small part of him hoping he could still taste a hint of her lips, then tossed it to the ground and reached into his pocket to pull out the crumpled pack and extract another cigarette. He saw her watching him in his peripherals, and her lips pursed like she might be holding back a comment, but she didn't say anything.

Something about leaving the bar had changed the atmosphere between them. Maybe it was the fact that it was _really _just them now. No bar, no stools, no wall of liquor to consult for advice or healing. They were out in the world, on the sidewalk at nearly three in the morning, walking through the cold and darkened neighborhoods side-by-side. Their voices sounded louder out here, and they echoed off buildings and threatened to wake hardworking people from their much-deserved sleep.

He was halfway through his second cigarette when he glanced up at the street sign they were passing and realized he hadn't been paying much attention to the direction they were walking in. Admittedly, he'd been following her. She seemed to know where she was going. Subconsciously, he'd thought it was her silent way of inviting him back to her place. Where else would she lead him to? If nothing else, he could drop her off. Maybe she'd let him inside, just for one more drink…

"Don't you live the other way?" He asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the direction they'd come from.

She looked over at him, but only briefly, before turning her head and staring down at her boots padding against the sidewalk. "No, I moved. I'm stayin' with my daddy again."

_Oh. Shit. What's that mean? _But he didn't have the balls to ask.

"How was you gonna get all the way home this late?" He asked.

She shrugged and responded, "I'm stayin' the weekend with Brittany. We were s'posed ta go to a party, but she got in a fight with her boyfriend an' left me at the bar."

_Oh. Shit. _It was no wonder she looked so good - she'd been all ready for a party only to spend her night sitting alone at some stupid college bar.

He knew he should've felt guilty for the selfish surge of hopefulness that burst to life in his chest at that moment, but it was hard to do with so much whiskey still swirling around inside his head. All he could think was how he really hated that he couldn't remember which direction Brittany lived in. Even with all the liquid courage in his veins, he still wasn't brave enough to ask if he was walking her back to her friend's house right now or… not.

He decided to wait and see. And hope. And as soon as his second cigarette was burned down to the butt, he pulled out a third and lit it between his lips.

Her arm brushed against his again. He couldn't pay attention to the streets or focus on where they were because all he could see was her hand, dangling at her side. Begging to be held, begging for his fingers to interlace with hers.

But there were so many calluses on his palms.

**to be continued...**

* * *

**A/N: **I would highly recommend reading this on AO3 just because it's so much better. You can actually see my story image and an accurate summary and tags, etc. Also, the title is supposed to read "picking (at sign) scabs" and yeah, it's kind of important, yet here we are.  
Beth is 22/23 in this and Daryl is in his 40s. The extent of their history will be gradually revealed as we move forward.

Anyway, no I'm not abandoning MW. It's still going strong. This is a side piece that I couldn't ignore for any longer. There's gonna be a lot of angst and smut and toxic relationship obstacles and things like that. I'm thinking it will end up maybe 20-30 chapters.  
As always, you can find links to the Pinterest board and Spotify playlist for this fic on my tumblr (im-immortal) or at the AO3 post. I also posted this on AO3 first before bringing it here, and my penname is the same over there.


	3. heartbeat II

**heartbeat II**

His heart leapt up into his throat and stayed there for the entirety of their walk down the last two blocks that led to his apartment building. And it didn't stop _thump-thump-thump_ing against the inside of his shirt until they were inside, ascending the flights of stairs and entering the little shithole he called home. If she'd wanted to order an Uber, he was pretty sure she wouldn't have wasted the effort of climbing all those stairs. Or taking her coat off. Or helping herself to the inside of his fridge.

Suddenly, the apartment felt like _home _for the first time in months.

She babbled on half-drunkenly about Brittany and Brittany's shitty boyfriend. He was only half-listening to the extent of the drama that had ensued, and that she'd been forced to witness and be dragged into, because he was too entranced by the way she flowed through his little apartment like she'd never left. She hung her coat over the back of a chair and flipped on all the lightswitches after cracking open two cold beers from the fridge and handing him one, striding over almost reflexively and turning up the heat on the thermostat until it was loudly kicking the vents to life around them.

And while she laughed and loudly concluded her story with a declaration of her decision to "keep me the fuck out of it for once," he watched her rifling through the pile of clutter on his desk. He was about to ask what she was searching for, but then she opened the drawer and her eyes lit up, and she quickly reached in and pulled out the small, black speaker she'd been looking for.

If she'd opened the second drawer, she would've found the pile of old cards and love letters that she'd told him to "throw away and forget about" sitting atop a pile of paperwork clutter. But she didn't.

He wasn't worried about the state of his place or what she'd think in general. She'd grown more than used to it by now. And he lived relatively clean, except for the clutter. He knew that she lived similarly, so there was nothing she could rightfully criticize him on. It didn't seem to matter to her regardless. She moved about the small apartment like she lived there, having little trouble with remembering where everything was kept. He never rearranged or changed things either, so that probably helped. Nonetheless, it spurred an odd feeling for him. Like nostalgia, but much deeper and more painful. She navigated his tiny space with ease, but there was a new hesitance about it. As though she were afraid of overstepping a boundary that they'd never had between them.

It was the same hesitance that had sat between them all night, that had kept his hands to himself during their walk home. And now it sat inside his chest, heavy and throbbing with a steady ache; a silent reminder of how things had changed, no matter how much he didn't want them to.

_Just friends,_ his own mind was taunting him. _Just friends. Just friends._

Music blasted out from the little black Bluetooth speaker sitting on the desk, filling the small area as she slipped her phone into her back pocket and began enthusiastically nodding her head and swaying her hips to the beat. He recognized the song as one of her favorites - one of the songs she loved to play that he'd always complained about. Yet this time, it sounded different. _Better_. He could tell why she loved it so much, especially as he watched her hips moving side-to-side like a gentle ocean wave to the beat.

He stifled a laugh as he watched, then took a long swig of his beer. Her head turned and those cornflower blues landed on him and he felt his entire body lift upwards.

"You got any more cigarettes?" She asked.

A moment later, they were out on his balcony. It was small, barely enough room for three people to stand side-by-side at once. But he only ever needed it so that his furniture wouldn't smell like cigarettes. She'd always liked it, though. Especially on nights like this, when they could look up at the stars and over the city lights. He couldn't even fit a chair out there but she'd never seemed to care. Just like she didn't seem to care tonight.

They stood close together, arms rested on the guardrail, cold air penetrating the thin fabric of their clothes and music pouring out through the open balcony door behind them. He could tell she was drunk because she didn't mind the cold right now, and he knew his fingers were numb so hers must be, too, but it didn't seem to matter. She stared out at the half-lit neighborhood, the bright streetlights and the neon signs in the distance, cigarette pinched loosely between her fingers. He exhaled clouds of smoke that grew larger when they hit the cold air, and he leaned purposefully closer towards her. She was warm against his side.

Before he could let the beer loosen his tongue, she was pulling her phone from her pocket and checking it. He tried not to look, but he glanced over and it was there and right before she darkened the screen, he could faintly make out a bright green notification that read: _Jimmy_. She sighed audibly and shoved the phone back into her pocket, eyes glazed as they returned to the skyline in the distance.

"Ol' Jimbo wonderin' where ya are? Who yer with…" The words escaped his parted lips before he could stop them and he looked over to gauge her reaction, holding his breath and dreading the worst. _Shouldn'ta said that. Please don't leave yet._

But she didn't grow angry like he'd feared. Her brow creased and a shadow of disdain crossed her features when she turned her head and met his eyes. She frowned and blinked for a long second, then turned her head back and gazed blankly at the coffee shop across the street before taking a long drag from the cigarette between her fingers. She held the smoke in her lungs for a beat and exhaled slowly.

"Oh - right. I guess you don't know. 'Cause you blocked me on everything," she muttered, wisps of smoke lingering on her lips, all of the light-hearted drunkenness completely gone from her voice. She was back to sounding just as bitter and resentful as when he'd approached her at the bar.

He sighed and took another long swig of beer. The bottle was almost empty. "Didn't _block _you - jus' deleted everythin'. Only ever had it 'cause ya wanted me to. You know I hate that social media shit."

"Whatever. I saw yer Instagram the other day, you didn't _delete _anything," she argued, taking a hasty sip of her beer, still not meeting his gaze. "But that's not the point - you should be happy. You win. He didn't _want _me. Couldn't _stand _me, just like you said."

In all honesty, he'd thought that _she _had blocked _him_. He'd wanted nothing more than to see how beautiful she still was, to see if she was still happy, even if it was through vague photos on his phone. But he'd fucked up that last remaining connection with his own unbridled anger and petty, childish behavior. His jealousy had gotten the best of him once again.

"I didn't _mean _any a that shit - I was pissed off. I was fuckin' _furious_. But I didn't _really _mean it," he muttered, throat dry and hoarse from smoke. "I… was pissed 'cause I knew that anybody with half a _brain _could see how perfect you are. Even _that _dipshit."

She turned her head and finally looked at him, and he watched as the hard crease in her brow softened, and then her mouth was settling into an unsure line. She only met his gaze for a second before staring down at the cigarette between her fingers. And her voice sounded vulnerable, full of misplaced guilt and blame, as she replied, "I'm _far _from 'perfect.' I'm a fuckin' _wreck _\- I'm outta my mind. I'm… I'm a burden on everybody who knows me. And you saw it, an' you warned me and I didn't listen. Now I get what I deserve."

His stomach turned and the all-too-familiar hollow ache returned to his chest. He drained the last of his beer and stared at the side of her face, at the golden waves of hair pouring over her shoulder. "He treated ya better'an I did. I don't - I _can't _blame you fer wantin' ta be with him. I didn't mean _any _a that shit. I was mad, I wanted you to feel as fuckin' _worthless _as I felt. 'Cause I'm an immature asshole… 'Cause I knew you could do better, an' that you'd never even _think _about me again."

Her lips parted as though she were contemplating what she wanted to say and his heart didn't even skip while he watched her and patiently waited for a rebuttal. Whether it was the cold air or the alcohol or the nicotine or even the stupid pop song playing through the balcony door that was calming his nerves, he wasn't sure. But for a moment, it felt relieving just to have _told _her.

Even though she'd _always _been right, from the very beginning. About everything, really. He still needed her to know that he was trying to take responsibility for his own shit; that he was ready to let the guilt he'd held inside for his entire life begin leaking out into the world. And he was prepared to point it out, name it, and be held accountable for all the damage it caused. He was ready to _tell _her just how right she'd always been.

And he couldn't help but wonder, with the faintest sense of hope: was that what she'd needed to forgive him? Would that make her want to give him a second chance? Would that make her want to stay the night, maybe cuddled up in her old spot beside him in his bed? Would that make her want to text him back tomorrow? He was trying not to let himself hang on that particular indecision.

He knew that he needed to let her go. She'd never be _his _again. He'd been trying to convince himself for the last several months, repeating it like a mantra in his head. But goddammit… he _wanted _her. _Forever_. Did she even want him anymore? At all?

Something in her eyes, in the way she leaned in just a little closer, was telling him _yes_. That it _might _be possible. So what was the right combination of words to convince her?

"Sure _sounded _like you meant it. An' it wasn't the first time you've said it," she muttered, eyes downcast. "Wasn't the first time I've _heard _it, either…"

A sharp pain shot through his chest and his fingers fidgeted around the empty bottle in his hand, wishing he had more alcohol to pour down his throat right now. Wishing he could take back every hurtful thing he'd said in the heat of every argument they'd had.

He watched her quickly down the last couple of sips in her own bottle and continue staring out at the skyline. The all-too-familiar silent suffering on her face made him want to reach out and pull her close. But he wasn't sure that was allowed anymore.

"Well, I didn't… _You _know how I get. When I'm mad. I'm an asshole," he said softly. _You know me better than anybody. Always have._

She didn't look up at him, taking a long drag from her cigarette instead.

"Need another beer?" He offered.

She nodded, bloodshot blue eyes set on the lights in the distance and the clouds of smoke curling out in front of her.

He quietly receded into the apartment, tossing his empty bottle into the trash and fetching two cold beers from the fridge. His head was swimming and he knew he didn't _need _another beer, but as soon as he stepped back out onto the balcony and felt the electricity that ran up his arm when her fingers brushed his while she took one of the bottles from his hand, he knew he _needed _another beer. Just standing close to her, smelling her, hearing her soft voice - no matter how slurred her words were becoming - was enough to give him heart palpitations.

Her presence had always done that to him, though, and it still did. There was an odd, almost indescribable physical effect that he could feel surging through every muscle in his body when she was near him. Being in her proximity was like being in the orbit of a vast and beautiful planet. Like being tugged downward, farther and farther, until his lungs were full of atmosphere and stardust and his head was swirling with nebulas and supernovas. He couldn't seem to pull himself out of her gravity. And he could never find the willpower to, anyway. Not when it was so invigorating.

"He's an idiot, ya know," he mumbled. "Whatever happened - he don't realize what he's walkin' away from. If he can't see that, maybe he doesn't deserve ya after all."

"Or maybe he jus' finally realized what he'd gotten himself into and backed out before he got in too _deep_," she said. Her tone was razor-sharp with resentment.

"Yer not _that _much of a wreck - no more'an anybody else. All that shit I said was what a dipshit like me _says _when he can see the most amazing girl he's ever _fuckin' _known walkin' out of his life fer good."

"Bullshit. You _hate _me. You said so yerself - you wish you'd never _met _me."

He sighed, swallowing a long swig of beer and licking his chapped lips. "I could _never _hate you. Not even if I tried... An' I really don't think I'd still _be _here if I'd never met you."

She chugged from her bottle for a solid two seconds, then took the last, long puff off her cigarette before tossing it over the edge. He could see her eyes trailing the lit cherry until it was swallowed up by the darkness. She took another swig of beer.

"Sometimes, I think I wasn't s'posed ta be here at _all_," she finally muttered, sounding almost defeated. "I shoulda died in that _fuckin' _car wreck… with Momma an' Shawn. I think Daddy would be happier now if he didn't have ta worry about me. Maybe Maggie woulda stuck around." Her eyelashes fluttered against her reddened cheeks and the expression on her face was practically wistful. "And _you _probably would've met a good woman - somebody yer own age who doesn't drag you through a buncha _little girl drama._"

His own words sounded so much harsher when they were coming from her mouth. He swallowed past a painful knot in his throat and downed a swig of beer, keeping his eyes trained on her. She barely glanced back at him for a split-second before returning to her bottle and the skyline.

"You wantin' me ta tell you that ain't true? 'Cause I think you already know it," he grumbled. "Ain't nobody better off without ya. Not yer family, not yer friends. 'Specially not me."

She hummed in mock contemplation, then said, "I just wish I could… _disappear_. Make everybody's lives easier."

He pursed his lips and prepared another response, but then she was turning her head and finally meeting his gaze. The pain in her eyes had grown tenfold. The small smile forming on her lips was empty and laced in sarcasm. Her voice was hollow, as though she were too tired to put any effort into _caring _anymore. "He did the same thing as you, but - _worse_. He stopped coming home, stopped answering my calls or texts. He said he needed time ta _think_. 'Cause he '_heard some things_' from people around town. From his _friends_. And then, I came home from work and all his stuff was gone."

Daryl blinked, jaw slack as he watched the torment crossing Beth's face while she summed up the entirety of her current struggle.

She took a quick swig of beer before finishing plainly, "He said he couldn't stand to _look _at me without feelin' sick. Said he didn't even _know _me anymore, that maybe he never had… I broke the lease an' moved back home just 'cause I thought I might _kill _myself if I had t'spend one more night in that empty _fucking _apartment."

He immediately felt guilty for it, but Daryl couldn't stop the sudden rush of gratuity he felt toward that fuckhead, Jimmy. _You didn't have to break her fucking heart like that, but now that ya did, you can stay far the fuck away, _he thought.

"He's an idiot. He's just a fuckin' _kid_," he said tentatively. Her eyes narrowed at him and he could see the venom bubbling at the surface of her lips. He quickly added, "If he's too _scared _ta go against the shit his dumbass friends say, then he ain't good enough fer you. I know I said a lotta _stupid _shit. And I wish I could take it back… But I wanted you ta be happy. And he _made _you happy. But if he couldn't keep it up, then maybe it wasn't even real ta begin with."

Her eyes glazed over and she turned to stare out at the skyline once more. She let out a deep sigh and took a swig of beer. Then she mumbled listlessly, "Yeah. It probably wasn't. That's… kinda what hurts the most. That I was stupid enough ta fall so _fast_. That I was so fucking _selfish _that I didn't even care how much I hurt _you _in the process, as long as I had this-this _chance… _And then I got what I deserved."

She shrugged and tipped back the bottle again, draining the last of the beer down her throat.

"Well if you deserved that, then I _definitely _deserved mine. I wasn't _good_ ta you. I was a ghost, jus' like you said. Ain't so crazy that you'd fall fer a guy who came along an' showed ya everything you'd been practically _begging _me for. I… couldn't give ya what you needed. That's on me. Not you."

This time, when she turned her head and focused those bright blue eyes on his, he could recognize the softness slowly forming in her gaze. Maybe he'd finally said the right thing. Or maybe the beer was just doing its job. He was hoping for the former.

"You gave me _everything_. I just… wanted too much. You're the only person who's ever _really _understood me. And I - I got really _selfish_. An' I fucked up. I shouldn't've pushed you so far when you weren't ready. I knew better and I did it anyway… I set _myself_ up to be disappointed."

_That ain't right,_ he thought.

But goddammit, she was repeating everything he'd ever convinced her of. He'd made her think she was crazy, selfish, cruel, and unlovable. When he knew for a _fact _that she was _none _of those things.

"No, you didn't," he said simply. "I did just as much wrong as you - prob'ly more."

_I thought you was stronger than that, _he wanted to say, but couldn't muster the courage, even now._ I'm a piece of shit, throwing rocks at a girl made of glass. I thought you was made of concrete, you always seemed so much stronger than I could ever hope to be... I __**do**__ understand you. I'll __**always**__ understand you like nobody else __**ever**__ could. What the hell kinda damage did I cause? How do I fix it? _

There were no answers to be found in her expression, or in the soft sigh that escaped her lips in response to his statement. She turned back and stared out hopelessly at the skyline, then up toward the stars.

He couldn't _see _the wounds that were causing her endless pain, but he could _feel _them. He could feel the aftershocks from the earthquake that had left her shattered and trembling. An earthquake of his own doing, made worse by another man's intervention.

Before he could figure out what else he could possibly say, she was pulling her phone from her back pocket and briefly scrolling through it. He noticed a new song interrupting whatever had been playing from the speaker inside, and the volume grew louder as she turned it up before darkening the screen of her phone and shoving it back into her pocket.

It was a country song, and it only took a few seconds for him to recognize the tune. The lyrics poured out and around them, provoking a slew of bad memories to come alive in his head. Despite that, Beth turned her head and looked at him, a smirk on her face.

That was the thing about being drunk. It was almost _too _easy to slip from an existential crisis into a moment of reminiscence and nostalgia, just like that. Especially for someone like Beth, whose mood could be changed at the flip of a switch by something as simple as a good song. Or, in this case, a song that they'd used to enjoy together. _Used to_ \- in a time that, nowadays, felt so long ago.

Yet, right now, as she playfully bumped her hip into his side to the beat and smirked at him, he couldn't fathom ever having sour feelings towards her. For _any _reason. No matter _what _song was playing. No matter how much that song had always seemed to mock his own pain and suffering.

"_Love's gone to hell and so have I… Here's to the past, they can kiss my glass, I hope she's happy with him. Here's to the girl that wrecked my world, that angel who did me in… I think the devil drives a Coup de Ville. I watched 'em drive away, over the hill - not against her will. I've got time to kill…"_

"You remember this song, don't ya?" She smiled up at him and his heart skipped, slowing amidst the mud that was forming around it.

He grunted, a smirk forming on his lips that he couldn't suppress. "All too well."

She shrugged, chuckling light-heartedly. "Still a good song."

Apparently she was done with the suffering for now. She was ready to smile and laugh again, and he was more than happy to let the alcohol take its course and lift the tension between them so effortlessly once more.

She nudged his arm and when he gave her a quizzical look, she glanced pointedly at his pocket. "Got another cigarette?"

He quirked a brow, already reaching into his pocket and extracting the crumpled pack as he teased, "Oh - _chain-smokin'_, huh?"

She chuckled softly and eagerly took the cigarette he held out for her, then the lighter. "Yeah, whatever," she mumbled, lighting it between her lips.

He followed her cue with his own cigarette, stuffing the pack back into his pocket, entranced by the way the thick smoke curled out from her lips and dissipated into the night air. He swigged down the last of his beer and set the empty bottle next to hers atop the narrow guardrail.

"Okay - here's a better song," she said, pulling her phone from her pocket again and scrolling through quickly. The country song was fading out behind them. As she shoved the phone back into her pocket, a new song began picking up.

He recognized it immediately and continued staring at her, smoking his cigarette and watching her cheeks somehow turn more red as her eyes flicked up to his and quickly away.

"_Our_ song," she said softly, smiling to herself while she gazed out toward the skyline.

And it was. The familiar tune echoed through Daryl's bones and the lyrics filled his ears, reminding him of better times. There were no _bad _memories connected to this song, but the memories that were connected made him ache all the same.

"_We'll buy a beer to shotgun, and we'll lay in the lawn, and we'll be good… We'll be good…"_

"Good song," he mumbled sheepishly after several long seconds, glancing away and gazing up at the dim stars above. He was trying his hardest not to think of all the times she'd sang these exact lyrics to him, strummed this exact tune on her guitar, gave him _butterflies_ where no man had _any_ business getting 'butterflies.' The memory made his lungs feel heavy and full of lead.

They stood in content silence, listening to the music and leisurely smoking their cigarettes together. He wasn't sure, but it felt like she was inching closer against him. Maybe she was just starting to get cold. He had to remind himself not to put his arm around her, not to pull her in tight or reach over and gently grab her chin to pull her mouth towards his. It was a strange and foreign feeling, to be holding himself back around her. But… _just friends. Just friends. Just friends._

Right before the song ended and faded out, he heard her soft voice from beside him, and felt her pressing her side meaningfully against his.

"I never _stopped _loving you, ya know… I think I'll _always _love you. In a way that I can never love anybody else..."

His heart skipped, it jumped all the way up to his throat. His breath hitched. Nonetheless, the words poured from him, "Me, too… You got a part a me that I ain't ever gettin' back."

He didn't like the tone in her voice when she whispered, "You could _have _it back - I never _asked _for it, Daryl."

His jaw clenched and he inhaled a deep breath of nicotine and tar. As the smoke tumbled from his lips on an exhale, he grumbled, "Don't _want _it back. Ain't somethin' I could get back, even if I tried. All I ever wanted was _you_."

He probably shouldn't have said that. But he didn't care anymore. The whiskey finally pushed through and loosened his tongue, as well as his lips. He tossed his cigarette butt out into the air and watched it fall, then turned and focused his attention on her. She'd been staring up at him the whole time, blue eyes wide and unsure. Or - was that the same longing he held inside reflecting back at him from her pale face? Or was he merely seeing what he _wanted _to see?

Then she took a short drag from her cigarette, puffing out the smoke. And she spoke, confusing him even more.

"I keep _dreaming _about you. Even when I didn't see you fer months - you kept showin' up like, every other night. An' then I'd wake up with the _weirdest _feeling, and it wouldn't go away fer hours…"

What was he supposed to say to that? Was he supposed to apologize? Or should he tell her that he didn't dream very often, but whenever he did, it was _always _about her? Even after weeks and _months _of not seeing her? Wouldn't that sound like bullshit to her - something that she'd never believe?

And how many more times could he tell her that he loved her before it became downright _pathetic_?

She lowered her eyelids for a long second, then lifted them and continued gazing up at him. The cigarette was still pinched between her fingers, her hand resting atop the guardrail, and it was nearly burnt down to the butt. She seemed to have forgotten it. Then she sighed and blinked thoughtfully, still staring up into his eyes.

"I think… you might be the only person who'll ever _really _love me. I dunno _why_, but I know you do. Even after… everything. Even after you've seen how _hideous _I actually am on the inside."

He flicked his tongue out across his lips and wished he had another beer in his hand right now. He was unable to break away from her intense stare, like she was boring into his very soul. She'd rooted him to the spot where he stood, heart racing and mouth gone dry. And she was gazing up at him expectantly, like there was a certain line he was supposed to recite in response.

All he could think about was that she knew he loved her. That she knew he _still _loved her, would _always _love her, like no one else _ever _could.

"You _ain't _hideous," he said. "And… a _lotta _people love you. Maybe not in the same way that I do, but it's still love. I won't be the last guy ta fall in love with you neither, I can promise ya that."

She rolled her eyes, but before she could scoff or quip back with a sarcastic remark or brush off his statement, he let his mouth pull the last few hesitant words from the inside of his head, and they slid quickly down a steep slope drenched in whiskey, beer, and sky-blue eyes.

"Yer the only woman I've _ever _loved. Only woman I ever _will _love."

He could see her swallowing hard, and then she was quickly looking away and staring out at the skyline once again. But her eyes didn't glaze over this time - her face was contemplative, almost conflicted. Like she wasn't sure whether she should say what was on her mind or not.

_Just say it. Please. Whatever it is, _he silently willed her soft lips to part and her melodic voice to fill his ears over the music playing behind them. There was a beat, a second that seemed to drag on far too long.

And then she whispered, "Sometimes, I think - I feel like we're... _soulmates_."

The cold night air entered his lungs and froze into a million little sharp ice crystals. She tossed her burnt-out cigarette butt over the edge and turned her head to meet his heavy gaze, the slightest hint of regret evident in her expression. Her cheeks were turning a darker shade of red and it wasn't because of the cold. Then she blinked rapidly and shook her head, giving him a crooked half-smile.

"I know, that sounds stupid, I just - "

He stopped her. "No. It doesn't. I - honestly, I never believed in _none _a that... Till I met you."

Her lips were still parted, paused mid-sentence, and her eyes grew wider as her eyebrows slowly raised in surprise. And realization.

But it wasn't like she didn't _know_. She _had _to, he thought. There was no _way _she didn't know how much she meant to him. How many bleeding, wounded sides of him had she seen since they'd known each other? Did she really think he just went around letting himself get vulnerable with random women? Or _any _women, for that matter? They'd had this discussion a million times. Did he really have to put it out there for her in layman's terms?

And if that was all he'd needed to do, why the _fuck _had his pussy ass never manned up before and just _said _it? Because he'd certainly done a _shit _job of showing it. And she's always told him: actions speak louder than words. Maybe that was why she'd never believed it. And maybe that was why, even now, she wouldn't believe him. What reason had he given her, anyway? Time and time again, he'd presented her with nothing but more reasons to believe that she meant _nothing _to him. To believe that he was barely a wisp of a man who would never remain solid in any one place - a _ghost_.

How could he ever make up for all the harm he'd caused?

At the same time, he knew that the root of most problems was his inability to swallow his pride. _Ever_. Even now, as he searched for ways to show her that he was remorseful, he couldn't forget the pain she'd inflicted over the years, both purposefully and accidentally. He couldn't get past the hard caster that formed around his heart whenever he thought about taking all the blame and throwing himself at her feet, begging for forgiveness. She wasn't perfect either. But wasn't that the point? That neither of them were perfect in any sense of the word, yet they still kept loving each other despite it? Or were his perceptions of 'love' all fucked-up?

"I tell myself I'm too codependent, but - I don't…" Her voice was pain-stricken, trailing off as her eyes drifted away from his, shadowed in doubt. She pressed her lips together tightly before barely parting them to finish softly, "I don't feel _whole_. I've always felt like a part a me was _missing_. And then I found you, and… it was just _there_. An' when yer gone, I'm incomplete again. Like there's a big open spot, somethin' nobody can fill or replace… I thought Jimmy could fill it. I thought he wanted all the stuff you _didn't _want. But he just left another hole."

Hearing that asshole's name roll off her tongue made him cringe every time. It made him imagine her wrapped up with a boy who had no idea what kind of treasure he had laid before him. And that image made him physically sick.

Daryl swallowed hard and stared down at his hands. When he finally willed himself to drag his eyes back up to her face, he found her gazing up at the stars.

He wasn't sure where it came from, but then his voice was coming out in a low growl, "I wanted _everything _you wanted, I jus' - I didn't know how ta _do _it. I was scared… Still am. It's flat-out _terrifying _ta let somebody have so much control over you."

Beth tore her gaze away from the stars and looked at him incredulously. "I never wanted any _control _over you," she started.

"You _know _that's not what I meant," he clarified.

Her mouth snapped shut and her face fell, reaffirming his assumption. She _did _know what he meant. He hadn't meant control as in _literal _control, but the kind of control that came unwillingly to someone in love. She had been the deciding factor on his mood, his outlook, his complete _mindset _for the last few years. No, she hadn't wanted to be. But she just _was_.

That's what happened when you fell in love with someone, when you laid your heart and soul out at their feet and begged them not to step on it. That's what happened when you let yourself love a wounded girl so deeply that she became an integral piece of your very existence, and the compass by which you navigated your entire life. That's what happened when you let that wounded girl see your own scars and feel your internalized agony for herself; when you let a damaged person inside and give them free reign to heal or destroy as they see fit.

He'd handed a large chunk of himself over to her, placed it in her hands, unwrapped and bare, and asked her to place it somewhere safe. Somewhere _nice_. And sometimes, he didn't even want it back. Even though his soul constantly _ached _for its restoration.

"I never _wanted _to fall for you, but you made me fall _hard_," she said matter-of-factly, and the words began pouring from her lips in half-slurred, drunken honesty, her gaze unwavering. "I wanted ta be free an' self-reliant, for _once _in my life. I never wanted ta let myself be _defined_ by somebody else. I wanted ta live the life my mama always wanted for me. I wanted to prove Maggie wrong and be the best daughter my daddy could've ever _hoped _for. But… _fuck_, Daryl. I don't know what it was. I _still _don't know. But from the first time I saw you, I knew - I had a _feeling_. Like me an' you were _connected _somehow. And then it just… it was too _easy_. It felt so _right_. You pulled me in and pushed me away an' pulled me back in - but bein' with you always felt so _comfortable_... I can't go one single day without _missing _you, without wanting to _talk_ ta you. You've always been my safe place."

He wasn't even sure his heart was working properly anymore, or his lungs or any other part of his body. Those cornflower blues had set their sights on him and sent a rush of icy water through every limb. And then that icy water was immediately replaced with a reassuring warmth. A sensation he'd been longing and searching for over the past months to no avail.

Because she was the only one who could give it to him. She was the only one he wanted to hear these words from. No matter how much guilt they brought to life within him.

"Didn't _make _you fall in love with me - didn't plan on fallin' fer you neither. I can't say sorry fer somethin' I didn't do," he said, his voice cracking toward the end. He needed another drink. "But it… I felt that, too. I dunno what it was either. I jus' - I ain't never met somebody that made me feel so goddamn _alive_, Beth. I fucked up, but I couldn't stand the thought a cuttin' you off completely. Still can't."

She was silent for a couple of seconds, and he subconsciously held his breath. Then she spoke in a tone that was half-mocking and half-serious, "Maybe we're just _meant to be_."

He wanted to laugh, wanted to brush it off as a joke. But he simply couldn't. Because he'd been thinking the same thing for so damn long now. And it was such a stupid thing to say - even stupider to admit. But if he'd learned anything from being with her, and losing her, it was that denying his true feelings only ended up hurting him in the long run. What more did he have to hide from her? She'd seen it all, and here she was. Back again for more. Unable to stay away.

Maybe she felt the same gravitational pull that he'd always felt. Or maybe she just liked punishing herself. Maybe she was a sucker for the suffering, just like him. She certainly had the physical scars to support _that _theory… But so did he.

At the same time, he wanted the situation to be different. _Completely _different. Why couldn't they have met at a different time, a different place, a different setting? Why did all the cards always have to be stacked against them?

"So… can I stay the night?" She asked, jarring him back to reality, back to the present and the circumstances around their little private party.

He hadn't thought that would even be a question. Then again, she was going through the motions - since they were _just friends_. It still felt odd to hear her asking for permission.

There it was: that invisible boundary that had never been there before, that boundary that felt forced and painful. As if there'd never been a time where she'd had her own spot in his bed, a million different soaps alongside the edge of his bathtub, and a drawer in his dresser. As if he'd send her away from the safety of his shitty apartment at this time of night, with this much alcohol in her system.

"'Course ya can. Ain't gotta ask," he mumbled.

She smiled weakly and, for the briefest second, it felt like just another night together on the balcony. For the briefest second, it felt like she'd never left.

**to be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** The songs mentioned in this chapter were "Brokenheartsville" by Joe Nichols and "Be Good" by Waxahatchee.


	4. heartbeat III

**heartbeat III**

They were sitting together on the couch, just like they'd used to. She slipped off her high-heeled, black boots and set them in the corner, next to his dusty old boots. She was wearing long gray socks over the bottoms of her black leggings. He couldn't help but think of how she had always looked better than him, how she'd always been more composed and able to maintain the appearance of being 'put-together.' Something he'd never quite mastered, even now, as he sat beside her in worn jeans and faded black socks.

None of that had ever mattered to her, though. And that was still the case. Because, as they sat close together on his ratty old couch and watched some stupid show on TV, she seemed to sink into the spot beside him like she'd just come home after a long day.

And after a few long minutes of comfortable silence and slowly inching closer together on the cushion, she mumbled out half-drunkenly, "I missed this… I've missed _you_."

Then she leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder and finally, _finally _that invisible boundary faded away. Though he knew it wasn't gone for good, and that it was still slightly raised and would soon be returning, it had dissipated for now. In the lull of the TV and the humming vents around them and the dim glow of his cheap lightbulbs, they'd melded together into a comfortable place - a _familiar_ place. He'd chewed his thumbnail down to the quick while resisting the urge to wrap an arm around her. But once he felt her warmth against him, all of the residual anxiety seemed to float away from his body.

He could still recognize her - the silent language she spoke with her body, her expressions, her tiny grunts and sighs and squeaks. And right now, he could recognize the old Beth that he hadn't seen in so _many _months. She was letting the facade fall away before him; she was allowing herself to fall into that old spot that she had missed, to take a break from the forced platonic charade she'd been leading him in.

She'd _missed _him. And holy _shit_, had he missed her, too.

"Me, too," was all he could manage to grumble out from a suddenly tight throat.

He wasn't sure if he'd imagined it or not, the slight nudge in his ribs that he felt at that moment. But it was the literal _nudge _he'd needed to lift his arm and wrap it around her, to pull her just a little closer. And she didn't pull away or grow stiff or uncomfortable. She melted into him completely and her head grew heavy on his shoulder, and she was _warm_. So warm. She'd always been like a tiny oven of body heat, sweating him out of bed and off the couch. Except right now, he wanted that warmth to encompass him entirely. He wanted it to swallow him up whole, to cleanse him of her absence like a sauna.

She made a soft humming sound of contentment, nuzzling into him. After a few seconds of uncertainty, his heart slowed and his breathing steadied, and his stomach wasn't even flip-flopping or wildly fluttering. He breathed in her scent, flowery with a strong hint of booze and cigarette smoke, and gazed down at the waves of blonde hair. Whatever show they'd been watching had quickly become a distant memory for him, and all he could focus on was the small and unsettled head resting on his shoulder, how she was closer right now than she'd been in _months_.

He'd stopped counting the weeks a long time ago. Once he'd realized that she _definitely _wasn't going to be coming around and seeing him anymore, for _any _reason. Once he'd realized that he'd failed and it was time to give up. _She's gone. You lost her,_ he'd told himself.

All of that seemed to fly out the window within several long and grueling moments. He wasn't nearly as drunk as she was, but he was well-acquainted with her tolerance level and knew that she wasn't anywhere _close _to the point of 'I was drunk, it didn't mean anything.' No, she'd poured her heart out to him on the balcony, looked him in the eyes just like she used to when they'd have long, heart-wrenching talks on his balcony or on her porch over cigarettes and glasses of liquor. She knew what she was doing, and he was almost certain she was doing it intentionally.

At least, he really, _really _hoped that was the case. If she missed him, maybe she missed _them_. Maybe she missed all the things he missed, all the things that kept him up at night and haunted him daily. Was it possible that it had taken a bad relationship with another would-be soulmate for both of them to realize that they belonged together? Could he _be _so lucky as to get another chance, an opportunity to repair all the damage he'd caused and fix all the mistakes he'd made?

Did he prevail over all of her dreams like she did his? She'd _said_ he did, but he still wasn't sure if it had been one more thing to make her sad all the time. He still wasn't sure that he wasn't the root of most of her problems, of the distress that weighed her down and seemed to hang from her shoulders all night.

He still couldn't tell if it had been deep-seated hope or deep-seated _fear _that had laced her tone when she'd admitted that she thought they were _soulmates_.

How could he tell her that it scared him, too? How could he _show _her?

Her thin arm was snaking out and around his middle, hand tucking in between his back and the couch cushion. She nuzzled in closer and hummed lightly, and he could feel her muscles relaxing against his side. Most of all, he could feel her hot breath on the side of his neck, sending chills up and down his whole body.

"Want me ta drive ya home in the morning?" He asked quietly. It was the only thing he could think to say - and he needed an answer before she passed out for the night.

She shrugged lazily against him and mumbled out, inches away from his ear, "_Mm_, whatever."

_That's not an answer._ With her arm around him, he was imagining how things would be resolved in the morning, once the booze wore off. Then he imagined being stuck beneath her sleeping form on the couch all night and asked, "Wanna go lay down?"

Surprisingly, and relievingly, there was no hesitation when she nodded against his shoulder and huffed out a small, tired sigh on the tingling skin of his neck.

It was a blur of muscle memory and deeply ingrained habits as he patted her thigh before urging her to sit up and pulling his arm away, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV. It was almost like being shot back into the past as he watched her stand up from the couch and briefly wait for him to join her before they headed toward the bedroom door - a routine they'd gone through countless times. He went through the motions of shutting off all the lights, locking the doors and lowering the thermostat, and then he found himself trailing after Beth into his bedroom, toward the dim glow of his bedside lamp and the sight of her small frame struggling to bend over and peel off her long socks.

She'd always been the first to bed.

There was no question about where she'd be sleeping for the night. They immediately felt into old habits and retreated to the safety of the bed they'd shared so many nights and mornings and afternoons in. And he was more than okay with that. In fact, it was an even better ending to the night than he'd originally hoped for.

He stripped off his jeans, socks, and T-shirt and crawled into bed in only his boxers and worn tank top, and a few seconds later, she was slipping in beside him, clad in only panties and a thin camisole. Her bra lay atop the small pile of clothing on the floor, and he didn't miss the way she quickly turned off the last source of light in the small apartment within seconds of revealing her bare legs and chest. He caught a teasing glimpse of milky white skin and long, faded-pink scars before he was bathed in darkness, his eyes slowly adjusting and soaking in the sparse slivers of moonlight sneaking through the thin curtains.

He barely had time to wonder when she'd become so self-conscious of her 'battle wounds' before he felt her small, warm frame curling up beneath his arm and pulling the covers over both of them. His entire body reflexively melted into the mattress and he wrapped his arm around her as she put a dainty arm tightly around his middle and pressed her thinly-clothed front firmly against his side, her head sharing his pillow while her face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. She slid one leg up and over his, hooking it beneath his calf and intertwining their limbs. Within seconds, they'd wrapped up together just like they'd used to, bodies interlocking like puzzle pieces warped with age.

The small apartment was so quiet that her breathing began to fill his ears, drowning out the sound of his own heartbeat. It stilled and calmed him, easing his muscles farther into relaxation and the familiar place in bed with her, flooding his entire system with a wistful, lighter-than-air sensation.

Then her voice was softly vibrating against his shoulder and through his chest, a whisper heavy with sleep. "I really have missed you. I think about you every single day, Daryl. I never wanted us ta end that way - I know I hurt you, an' I can never make up for it. An' I know it was stupid ta think that we could ever stay _friends _after all that. But I just… I _can't _\- when I don't have you in my life, it feels like a whole _chunk _of myself is missing."

He could practically feel the invisible wounds that riddled his insides slowly healing, gradually stitching themselves back together at her words. Was it possible to fall in love with someone for a second, third, fourth or fifth time?

And his response poured out before he could really think about it, "I know, but… We hurt _each other._ An' I ain't the best at dealin' with pain. 'S why I get so pissed off. I wanted you ta be happy, but… _shit_. Beth, it - it fuckin' _killed _me ta see you with another guy. I ain't wanted ta beat somebody's head in so bad before in my _life_. I didn't wanna cause no more damage. Neither one of us was gonna move on if we stayed friends. You was better off without me…"

He heard her breath catch and the soft, barely-there whimper that elicited from her throat before she whispered, "So - you _don't _love me anymore. Like _that_." She worded it like a question but it sounded like an assumption.

He furrowed his brow and turned his head, wishing there were more moonlight so he could see her blue eyes clearly as he stared into them. Even in the darkness, he spotted the tears beginning to form. He wasn't sure if she could make out the incredulous expression on his face.

"_What_? Don't be stupid, girl - you _know _I love you. '_Like that.'_ _In _love, whatever you wanna call it. I never stopped, not even when you was with that shithead. Not even when I lied an' said I _hated _you."

There was a beat, a long pause in which he could hear her taking a deep breath and feel her body shifting uneasily. Then she mumbled quietly, almost wistful, "I always thought I was gonna _marry _you, Daryl. I thought we were _forever… _Sometimes I still do."

_Fuck_. His stomach was twisting into knots, and he couldn't push back the thoughts of, _Me, too. Am I a goddamn fool for wonderin' if we still could be?_

"I wish we weren't so fucked-up," her breathy voice continued. "I wish I wasn't so _crazy…_"

He wished she'd stop drunk-talking and just go to sleep.

His pride was bubbling up to the surface, prickling his skin, forcing him to choose between swallowing it or ignoring it once again. But then his arm tightened around her and his other hand was moving on its own accord as it lifted and moved to gently grab her chin and tilt her head upwards, barely inching her face closer to his. He could smell her whiskey-soaked breath and her sweet shampoo.

"I love you, Beth Greene. You may be crazy, but I wouldn't have ya any other way. I _never _deserved you."

Her eyes softened beneath his intense gaze and before he could stop himself, he was closing the distance between their mouths and pressing his lips tentatively against hers. A thousand memories washed over him all at once and he couldn't understand or explain why he was squeezing his eyes shut and fighting back tears.

There was no hesitation in the way she kissed him back. Her body leaned closer and tighter against his and he knew she was having the same odd, deja vu-like experience as he was. Yet there was something _different _there, resting between them and tingling on their chapped lips. As though they'd resurrected a dearly beloved feeling, dug it up from beneath miles of dirt, and it had risen from the ashes anew, reborn as something larger, something that burned hotter and brighter than ever before. It threatened to consume them altogether. And he was more than okay with that.

As she briefly pulled back and he opened his eyes to find her bloodshot gaze set on him, he realized that he really wouldn't mind if he died right here in this bed, right now, with her. At least he'd go out happy and wrapped up in the one person he loved the most.

Her lips parted just enough to whisper out, "You never deserved all my _bullshit_. You'd be so much happier if you'd never met me."

He squeezed her against him a little tighter and grunted, "Nah - I'd be locked up. Or _dead_. But never happier'an this."

Her face grew more concerned and he could see another argument forming, so he quickly pressed his mouth to hers again. Any response she might've been preparing was silenced, and she kissed him back even harder this time. Her lips parted to allow his gently prodding tongue entrance, slipping in and immediately finding hers before exploring the intricacies of her perfect teeth and near-forgotten mouth.

From there, instinct and long-embedded reflexes kicked in, combined with the slight encouragement brought on by the alcohol and the familiar comfort of one another's bodies. At first, she took control and fluidly moved from heated kissing to snaking her hands beneath his tank top and across his bare stomach, sending goosebumps rippling over his torso. He slipped his hand from her chin to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her silky soft hair, resisting the overwhelming sense of longing that wanted to break him apart before her.

His blood was like molten lava, rushing through his veins and pooling in his legs, spiking his body temperature until he was sure he'd start sweating any second. And she was still a tiny furnace, even as she writhed beneath the blanket and wriggled her petite frame up and over until she was lying atop him, half-straddling his hips.

It was one fluid motion pouring into the next, their lips grappling and tongues exploring the wet caverns of one another's mouths, fingers and hands trailing over skin and slipping beneath thin fabric.

He was suddenly thinking of all the things he'd wished he could do to her whenever he was lying awake at night, or pleasuring himself in the shower. Snippets of fantasies and stored photographic memories that he'd played over and over in his head, images that he focused on as an orgasm ripped through his body. Beth - it was _always_ Beth. Rarely did he think of anyone else, or long to be inside someone as much as he longed to be inside of her one more time. He'd thought up a thousand and one ways to worship her body, to show her just how amazing he thought she was, especially when she was lying in his bed with no clothes on. He'd reminisced about and imagined, time and time again, the different expressions that formed on her face and that high-pitched squeal that would escape from her throat whenever he hit _that spot_ just right. Most of the time, replaying those memories in his head was the only thing that _could _make him come.

There were so many things he'd kept locked up for months that he wanted to tell her right now - and all of those things could only be spoken through body language.

_That's lust, not love._

His doubts were silenced by her body squirming atop him, her hips grinding against the rapidly-growing bulge in his boxers. He'd been questioning the difference between lust and love for way too many years now, and when it came to her, he'd convinced himself that he was toeing a very thin line most of the time. Yet it didn't seem to matter. Not when she was kissing him like this, grasping at his skin, pulling him impossibly closer. He didn't have nearly enough strength to find the usual cynical retreat he tended to resort to.

All he could think about was _Beth_: her body, her smell, her warmth and her chapped lips on his, her wet tongue and her roaming hands and her long, tangled hair. The supple thighs that were spreading farther and farther apart, begging him closer, urging him near. Welcoming him home.

_Fuck_, he'd missed her.

Every tangled web of shame, guilt, and remorse seemed to break apart inside him, and what was left of his inhibitions went the same route. The throbbing hard-on beneath his boxers was demanding all of his attention, and despite all of the longsuffering pain and aching that had been constantly residing at the back of his head for several months, a wave of pure ecstasy was washing over him and he couldn't focus on _anything _except his fingers grazing across the near-forgotten curves, dips, and dimples of Beth's bare skin.

He wasn't even tempted to allow the bitter resentment to resurface in his mind, or the self-admonishing voice that always seemed to be there, because all he could think about was how badly he wanted to be _inside _of her. How badly he wanted her panties to be pulled aside and her hand to be wrapped around his hard cock and pulling it from his boxers…

Then she was kissing along his jawline and down his neck to the hollow of his throat, making his blood rush even faster towards his achingly hard erection. Her hands were dragging down his bare chest, across his rigid abdomen, as though she were trying to take in all the details she'd forgotten.

"_God_, I missed your body," she breathed against the taut skin stretched over his his collarbone, affirming his assumptions and sending a chill down his spine and another rush of blood to his cock. "_Nobody_ can fuck me like _you_…"

Something stirred within him and before he could hesitate, he was firmly grabbing her by the hips and flipping them both over until she was lying on her back beneath him. He grunted and she let out a quiet giggle of surprise. He straddled her, supporting his weight with his knees and elbows, and immediately leaned in and began planting kisses along the crook of her neck, flicking his tongue out to catch brief tastes of her sweet skin and the salty perspiration forming there. She slipped her arms beneath his and placed her palms against his back, gripping him tightly and pulling him in closer.

"We don't _fuck_," he grumbled against her chest, gradually leading his trail of kisses farther south and lifting his eyes to meet hers as she watched him. His low growl was muffled by her heaving chest pressed to his lips. "We've _never _fucked. It's always been more'an that."

She giggled and the sound sent vibrations through his lips. "You mean we _make_ _love_?"

He grunted in affirmation and continued kissing her bare skin, trailing lower until his chin was brushing the top of her camisole.

She slipped her arms free and reached down to grasp the sides of his face instead, pulling him up to kiss her again. He allowed the interruption, finding her tongue and her hot panting breath all too tempting. When she broke away for air, his eyes fluttered open and met cornflower blues and blown pupils staring up at him.

"I guess that makes sense then - 'cause nobody _can _love me except you," she whispered.

He stole another long kiss, then stared intently back at her and growled, "Shut up - yer _perfect_."

He saw the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth before he dove back downward, grabbing the hem of her camisole and pulling it off until she was exposed before him, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of purple panties in the dim glow of moonlight. He resumed kissing her chest, taking his time with each tiny, pert breast, flicking out his tongue here and there until he could feel the goosebumps forming along her skin. He took each nipple in his mouth and sucked gently for a few seconds, the tiny gasps and quiet moans that elicited from her throat sending more blood pulsing through his painfully-hard cock. His fingertips teased the waistband of her panties as his mouth continued.

Then he trailed his lips down and down, until he'd found the pattern of raised skin along her ribcage. He grazed his lips softly and meticulously across each scar, having already memorized them all a long time ago. It was like following his own personal map of her body. She gasped again, but there were no stifled moans or panting breaths. He could feel her heart speeding up, her pulse ricocheting beneath her supple skin. Quickly followed by her small, warm hands placing themselves firmly on his shoulders, as though she were contemplating pushing him away.

But she _wasn't _pushing him away.

He continued his journey south, lingering at the elastic of her underwear and teasing it once more with his fingertips. But then he went straight down to her thigh, scooting himself lower and lower until he was sitting on his knees between her legs. His lips were trailing more kisses down her left thigh, the smooth and flawless skin that lay there radiating its own intense heat. He grasped her ankle gently and felt the muscles in her leg trembling as he carefully raised it just enough that he could continue kissing downward, over smooth, recently-shaven skin, down to her knee. And the long, raised, pink-ish scar that started there and continued in a perfect line down the side of her leg to her ankle.

The first time Daryl had ever met Beth was in a river. She'd been in a bikini, tanned from the summer sun, and every marred bit of her skin was bared for the world to see. She hadn't shown an ounce of shame or embarrassment either. She'd made him feel like a goddamn _pussy _for insisting on wearing a T-shirt the whole time.

Was that the same girl he had lying beneath him right now? The same one whose blue eyes were filling with tears as she watched him place his lips gently and longingly against her second-worst scar? Or was this another Beth that he had yet to meet?

Her voice jarred him, causing him to pause and watch the internal conflict appear in her face, in her teary eyes. "Don't - "

"Beth, yer _beautiful_," he breathed against her skin, placing his lips softly against the scar once more.

Her mouth formed a tense and thin line as he maintained eye contact and released her left leg, quickly and carefully grabbing her other ankle and lifting her right leg, leaning down and restarting his pattern at the top of her soft thigh.

But he only trailed a couple inches of ginger kisses against her skin before he found something surprising - something _new _\- that caused him to stop.

Then her hands actually _were_ pushing on his shoulders, urging him away. She reached down with one hand and tried to grasp his wrist, tried to pull him away. He didn't fight her, but he didn't pull away either. He was frozen, staring down quizzically at the once-familiar skin beneath his fingers.

The soft, milky white thigh that should've been just as perfect and unmarked as the other thigh was… injured. _Marked_. Finger-length slits left by a razor-sharp blade, aligned in an oddly-meticulous row, one after the other scabbed and raised and pink with irritation. He couldn't resist running his thumb across them, assuring himself they were real and that his eyes weren't playing tricks. Suddenly, he understood why she was half-pushing him away, why she was fighting back tears.

_Somewhere that nobody would see 'em. Smart. Except when yer naked with somebody._

"Beth - "

"_Don't_ \- please, don't. Daryl, I _can't…_"

He released her leg and quickly swooped in and downwards, hovering over her small frame until her peaked nipples were brushing against the cotton of his tank top. He pressed his mouth to hers, stilling her trembling bottom lip and swallowing her stuttered breaths and all the stifled sobs. She kissed him back, hard and meaningful, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders and urging him tighter against her. Pouring her grief into him while he eagerly drank it in.

He broke away momentarily, just long enough to breathe against her lips in a tone raw with desperation and pleading, "Don't hurt yerself - _please_. I _can't _lose you, baby. If you leave, I'll be right behind you…"

He'd told her before, but it was worth repeating.

Her breath hitched audibly and he could see more tears forming in her pitiful eyes. She blinked them away and kissed him. Hard.

With her lips still grazing his, she whispered against his mouth, "You're the only one keeping me here, baby."

_Fuck_, he'd missed her. He'd missed hearing her call him 'baby,' and he missed calling her by anything and everything except her name. But most of all, he'd missed _this_. The way their chests seemed to crack open and expose every single vulnerable organ inside their bodies, the way they poured out their deepest fears and hopes and unfulfilled desires. The way they turned themselves inside-out to bare all the buried pain and longing. The way she looked at him like she wasn't seeing _him_, but rather his torn-open soul as it desperately reached out for her.

And she was reaching back with her own. _Crying _out loudly for him.

He couldn't bear to look at those cuts again, or to feel them beneath his fingers. They were _wrong_, they didn't belong there, they had no business _anywhere _on her perfect body. It made him ask himself what he'd done to hurt her so badly, and then it made him ask himself what that other _fuckhead _had done to hurt her so badly. Was it really such irreparable, penetrating damage that she had to resort to creating her own physical wounds?

He knew every single scar like its own storybook, and the image of new ones made his stomach turn. But her lips were still so soft, swollen from all of their kissing, and she was pressing herself tighter and tighter against him, begging him to be closer, to be _one _with her. Silently asking him to help her feel better, to help her feel more like _herself _again. And his cock was still so painfully hard, especially as it brushed against the inside of her warm thigh, so close to the damp heat between her legs.

Their chests were heaving in sync, bodies calling out to one another as her kisses grew hungrier and more demanding. Her fingers had inched their way down to the hem of his shirt until she was yanking it up and over his head, barely parting their mouths to toss it aside. And then her hands were on his back, fingers running across the series of ugly, pink-ish scars that lay there.

She was the only one allowed to do such a thing and she knew it. It made his heart leap and he bit down softly on her bottom lip, but she merely groaned and returned the gesture and dug her fingers harder into the skin of his back.

Was she rediscovering the old map that she'd once followed, just like he'd done with her body? Or was she just reminding herself that he was damaged goods, too?

Either way, he could hear her silent plea within her wet mouth and her bucking hips, begging him, _Please forget the pain, just for tonight, let's be happy again. _He didn't let himself wonder if he was only hearing what he _wanted _to hear. Because she wanted something else, too. She didn't want to wallow in that abysmal pit of anguish. She didn't want to spend another night crying herself to sleep in his arms. Not with all that whiskey and nicotine running through her veins.

Not with all that lust in her eyes. All that lust pooling between her legs and in her panties. All that _sin _that they were both more than willing to commit. _Together_.

Beth let out a moan of need as Daryl's throbbing cock brushed against her inner thigh through the thin fabric of his boxers. He responded with a soft grunt of his own and, without another second of hesitation, scooted downward and slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties in one fluid motion. She lifted herself briefly to help him slip them off and down her thin legs, until he was tossing them aside just like their shirts. She immediately reached out and tugged at his boxers, so he slipped them off and wriggled them off his legs, and he definitely noticed the look in her eyes as she gazed down and found his cock standing rigid at attention between them.

Then he grasped her thighs firmly, keeping his fingers away from any marked skin, and leaned down to place soft, teasing kisses along the tender flesh between her thighs. He didn't stop kissing and flicking out his tongue until he could hear her gasped breaths stuttering, until he could feel her muscles trembling around him. Her fingers were gripping his shoulders tighter and tighter, urging his head toward her center.

His lips found their way to her hood and her swollen clit, taking it all into his mouth and gently sucking. A shudder ran through her body and her fingers tightened on his shoulders, her legs reflexively spreading farther apart. His cock jumped and throbbed, and he ground his hips into the mattress, searching for friction. He flicked his tongue out and ran it between her folds, circling her clit and eliciting another shudder and low moan. She smelled and tasted exactly as he remembered, and he wasn't sure he could ever stop indulging himself.

The sounds she was making were nearly as intoxicating as her taste on his tongue, the low moans and shuddering breaths. The feel of her blunt fingernails digging into his shoulders and all of her muscles repeatedly tensing and relaxing around him. Her clit was swelling between his lips and she was so wet that he could feel it dampening his chin hair. He couldn't stifle the groan that rolled out of his mouth, and she shuddered again when it vibrated against her pussy. His cock was throbbing harder, precome building and soaking a small spot into the sheets.

But he couldn't tear himself away from her sweet cunt and the familiar warmth that was welcoming him home. He released one thigh and slid his hand down until he was slipping a finger inside her wet, pulsing entrance. She rewarded him by tightening her walls around his digit and letting out a deep, guttural moan of pleasure. He was afraid he might come right then and there. His cock twitched against the mattress.

He nibbled lightly on her clit and revelled in the tremble of her muscles, sucking harder as he slid his finger farther inside her tensing pussy. Then he slipped a second digit in beside it and trailed his tongue long and hard through her folds and around her clit, sucking and nibbling gently as he wriggled both fingers within her wet heat. She shuddered again and he could hear her moans gradually turning into squeals of pleasure. Her walls were constricting and quivering, and the deeper he pushed, the more resistance he met from the inside - which meant he was finding his way to the exact spot he'd been searching for. Her squeals were quickly getting higher-pitched, bouncing off the walls of the small bedroom.

If Daryl had had any idea that his last time with Beth would be their _final _time together, he would've done it a lot differently. Ever since, he'd fantasized dozens and dozens of different ways that he wanted to worship her body. A million different ways that he wanted to make their last time together as memorable as possible - not just for him, but for _her_. And now, it was like getting that second chance.

Would this actually be the _official _last time for them? If so, he wanted to make her _scream_. He wanted to make her come so many times that she was left shaking and dehydrated. He wanted to make love to her until she could barely walk from the intense waves of pleasure and ecstasy.

He wanted her to remember him. _Really _remember him. Just as badly as he wanted to be able to remember her.

And maybe, admittedly… a small part of him wanted her to miss him. Like he would _always_ miss her.

He wriggled his fingers inside her and felt the resistance intensify, her thighs locking around his head as his tongue continued to work her clit. And he didn't stop, continuing his motion even as a cramp began to form in his wrist. He revelled in her taste, dragging his tongue down and lapping up every drop that wept from her quivering cunt. In return, he was rewarded with more moans of pleasure from the depths of her throat. When he looked up, he could see her head tilted back into the pillow, jaw slack and chest thrust out, heaving with panted breaths. Her nipples were peaked and bright pink like tiny mountains atop the pale skin of her breasts glowing in the moonlight. His cock throbbed a little harder, twitching against the mattress with anticipation, and he tried to burn the image into his brain.

He wanted to _enjoy _this.

Her entire body was squirming, inching toward him, hips bucking into his face every time his lips wrapped around her swollen clit. She welcomed his fingers inside, urged them deeper, and once his pace quickened and he could feel his fingertips pressing against the spot that made her absolutely fall apart, he knew he couldn't stop until she was gushing. Which she did.

He curled his digits within her constricting walls a few more times and then she was keening, high and loud. The sound bounced off the walls and echoed in his ears, rattling through his bones so deeply that he could feel another spurt of precome dampening his boxers. His cock throbbed and twitched _hard_.

And then her whole body was trembling, shaking, quivering just like her pussy, and the half-moan/half-squeal that was pouring from her mouth was continuous, just like the gush of come soaking his fingers inside her, dribbling out and across his knuckles, practically drenching his hand. She ran out of air and began panting, squealing, dragging her nails through his hair and across his scalp, both pulling him closer and shoving him away at the same time.

Her thighs twitched from the aftershocks and she let out a long moan as he slowly slid his fingers out and looked up at her from between her legs. His gaze locked onto her wide pupils before he slipped the two fingers drenched in her juices into his mouth, sucking more of her sweet taste onto his tongue, desperate to savor every trace of her that he could get. He watched her breath hitch, her mouth agape as the lust bloomed darker and larger in her eyes. A soft moan of need escaped her throat and sent a shudder through his entire body, and his cock twitched again in response.

He couldn't wait any longer, and thankfully, neither could she. As soon as he was sitting up on his knees again, preparing to swoop down and envelop her in his arms, she wrapped her legs around him and grabbed him by the wrists, yanking him closer until the seeping head of his cock had left a moist trail down her inner thigh, grazing her lips and swollen clit, eliciting another shudder from both of them. His dick was throbbing and aching to the point that it was taking every ounce of resistance he had left not to reach down and begin touching himself - and the only reason he didn't was because he wanted this to _last_, and he didn't want to feel anything unless it was her tight cunt wrapped around him.

"_Fuck_ me, Daryl," she pleaded, her voice breathy and high-pitched, hoarse from all the moaning and groaning and squealing. "I _need _you."

And then he was on her in a heartbeat, propped up on his elbows and caging her in beneath him, leaning down to kiss the softest spot on her neck. Their chests were pressed flush together and he trailed his lips upward until he was lightly nibbling at her earlobe, cock throbbing and twitching between her legs, teasing the wet heat of her entrance and weeping with more precome.

His breathing was shallow and desperate, perspiration forming on every inch of his skin. And he could feel the shiver that ran through her entire body as he growled into her ear, "Need you more'an you know, baby."

Her arms wrapped around him and her fingernails dug into his back, her legs pressing against the backs of his thighs and silently urging him closer, closer, _closer_. Until their bodies were interlocked and the head of his throbbing cock was barely pressing into the wet warmth of her waiting cunt. She gasped at the contact and kissed him hungrily, digging her nails into his back a little harder until he was groaning low in his throat and returning the demanding need of her mouth.

He resisted the urge to shove himself inside of her with one desperate thrust and slowly eased the thick head of his cock inside her soft, pulsating walls. She gasped in sharply and dug her nails into his skin even harder and he grunted from the agonizingly slow onslaught of pleasure. As he slid himself inside her, inch by inch, her pussy clamped down and trembled around his cock, and she moaned out in a long breath. He pressed his lips to hers and swallowed her euphoric sounds, kissing her hungrily as he shuddered and felt the intense heat of her cunt consuming his cock, until their body warmth was conjoined and her sharp hip bones were nestling in to the tender skin just beneath his.

He could still detect a slur in her words as she panted out against his lips, "_God_, I missed your cock, baby…"

But the whiskey was still swirling around in his head just as heavily as it was in hers, and he didn't even have to think about it before he was growling into her mouth, "I missed this pussy - _goddamn_, you feel so good."

_Fuck_, he'd missed hearing all the nasty words that poured from those pretty lips in the darkness of his bedroom.

He knew every single side of her, but _this _side was still one of his favorites, by far. The uninhibited, lust-driven, absolutely _animalistic _part of Beth that had slowly formed and grown over the last four years, writhing to life between sweaty sheets with scars pressed against scars and moans of ecstasy buzzing in their ears. Countless fading hickies and bite marks and finger imprints and scratches left by nails raked down his back. They'd grown into each other, learning one another's bodies and sounds and movements, bringing out the deepest and most desperate parts of each other. Daryl had never been the type to talk dirty - or to really even talk _at all _during sex. But with her, the words seemed to just roll off his tongue reflexively. He couldn't resist the way his throaty growls never ceased to make her thighs quiver around him. It became just another part of _passionate love-making_.

Only with her, though.

He could feel her pulsating cunt somehow getting even wetter around his cock as her tight walls molded around his girthy length and welcomed him in deeper, and after a couple of hearty thrusts, he felt that familiar resistance barely pushing against the head of his cock, guiding him like a compass to the spot that would make her fall apart beneath him. She was continuously gasping and panting into his mouth, kissing him hungrily and digging her nails into his back, her legs urging the backs of his thighs to buck into her farther, faster, _harder_. He read her motions and interpreted her tiny squeals and groans, gradually building a steady pace in rhythm with the rocking of her hips.

In and out, harder and faster, wetter and wetter and throbbing in sync with their racing hearts. Their chests were sticking together with perspiration and there was a very distinguishable sound coming from the combined slapping of skin-against-skin and his thick cock sliding repetitively into her soaking cunt. It bounced off the walls around them, barely louder than their own noisy breathing, grunting, and moaning.

She bit down on his bottom lip and the pain surged through him, sending a new wave of pleasure straight down to his dick. He rammed into her, eliciting a high-pitched moan from her open mouth. His cock pulsed inside her and he was thankful that the whiskey was giving him a little extra stamina. Although he could feel the edge rapidly approaching, far quicker and closer than he wanted.

He broke away from her mouth and kissed a sloppy, feverish trail across her cheek and down to the soft part of her throat beneath her earlobe, pausing and sucking lightly, reveling in the way she trembled beneath him, the way her pussy trembled just the same around his cock, coating it in a fresh wave of wetness. Her juices were leaking out, dampening his balls and their inner thighs, making the sounds of their skin slapping together even louder. He was breathing in her heady scent, the mixture of sweat and fruity shampoo and cigarettes and booze and _Beth_.

It made him feel high, sending a shockwave down his spine that reverberated within his hard cock, and he slammed into her over and over, eliciting squeal after squeal from her parted lips. His teeth bit down into the tender skin of her neck and didn't let up, and she shuddered in response, bucking her hips up into him harder. The warm tingling that had come to life at the very pit of his stomach was growing by the second, building at the base of his cock, threatening to burst out of him like an active volcano, threatening to drain all the molten lava from his rushing veins.

"_Oh_ \- baby, make me _come_," she whimpered in his ear.

It took every last ounce of willpower within him not to explode inside of her right then and there. The only reason he didn't was because of his determination - he intended to do _exactly _as she asked.

He thrust his hips a little harder, ground his pelvis down into hers a little harder, making sure to create the right amount of taunting friction against her swollen clit as he pounded into her pussy. His balls slapped against the lower flesh of her ass and she gasped with every stroke while he panted and grunted and lightly dragged his teeth across the skin of her throat, eyes squeezed shut as he willed himself to hold back. Even as the pressure intensified against the head of his throbbing cock, and her walls clenched tighter and tighter around his engorged length, and her breath became pure _fire _in his ear. The tingling pressure built higher and filled to bursting at the bottom of his stomach. And her sharp hip bones were digging so deliciously into his tender muscles with every thrust.

She was writhing and squirming beneath him, panting and gasping and moaning with unbridled pleasure, fingernails digging into his back and legs clenching possessively around his upper thighs. He pushed into her once more with intent, following the internal map to her climax, and felt that pressure finally burst against the head of his cock, nearly forcing him out. But he continued to thrust into it, pushing against it, his lips and teeth freezing over her throat as he grunted and then let the wave of her orgasm wash over both of them.

Her entire body went rigid for a split-second and her moan came out clipped, halting suddenly as a tremble ran through her. The floodgate opened and he felt her come spilling across his cock, leaking out and dribbling down his balls and their conjoined pubic areas, electrifying his throbbing dick with intense shockwaves of ecstasy. Her walls seemed to soften around him, constricting for a moment before releasing all at once and quivering around him. He sucked in a sharp breath and held it, revelling in the overwhelming wave of her climax while forcing back his own. His cock pulsated inside her, precome continously seeping out.

And she didn't need to tell him because he already felt it, but she did anyway.

"_Fuckfuckfu _\- baby, I'm _coming_, oh my _god_," she whined, head thrown back into the pillow as her small frame reflexively thrust upward and pressed tighter into his enveloping form. Her fingernails were slowly raking down his back, digging into his flesh and threatening to break skin.

"_Come_ fer me, baby," he growled against her neck, nibbling and kissing lightly. "Come all _over _that dick."

She let out another squeal that mixed with a high-pitched whine, fading into a moan as her muscles slowly relaxed and she melted into a puddle beneath him. She licked her dry lips and struggled to catch her breath, her legs finally releasing their death-grip on his upper thighs. Her tight cunt was pulsing and softening around his cock.

_This is where we're supposed to be. This is __**home**__. This is what __**love **__feels like, _that quiet voice whispered at the back of his head. _Because if it isn't, then what else could love possibly __**be**__? _

He was still reeling from her orgasm, fighting back his own and growing more and more intoxicated by everything about her. And suddenly, she was taking charge, gently pushing him off of her until his hard cock was slipping out of the warmth of her cunt. Not for long, though, because with another fluid motion, she was flipping around, guiding him back with her hands and her hips and her ass. Then he was resting on his knees behind her while she bent over on all fours and swiftly interlocked their bodies once more.

Before he could prepare himself for the sensation, he found his aching cock being swallowed up by the wet warmth of her tender pussy again as she pushed back onto him, easing his entire length inside her. He grabbed her by the hips and guided her backward until her pert little ass was pressed against him, nestled into the bend of his body, her tight walls slipping around his cock like a glove. And when he gazed down, he found himself staring at her milky white back bathed in moonlight, waves of blonde hair glinting almost silver.

As well as her _first _worst scar - the long, jagged line of raised, pinkish skin that started at the top of her spine and ran down nearly the entire length to her lower back. Another map etched into pale flesh. Another reminder, like a relieving flash of something familiar amidst uncertainty.

Yet all he could think about was how utterly, absolutely, and unquestionably _gorgeous _she was. Every inch of skin, every imperfection, every stretchmark and dimple and mole and scar. He wanted to drown himself in her essence, in everything she was and everything she would never be.

His hand was reaching up and tangling his fingers in the back of her hair, gently tugging her closer toward him as he slowly slid his throbbing cock in and out of her, teasing her dripping pussy, elongating the moans and groans that kept leaking from her mouth. His other hand gripped her hip tightly, fingertips digging into tender flesh, and he gradually sped up his pace until he was ramming into her over and over, searching for that familiar spot from a different angle. Her pussy quivered around him as his fingers tightened in her hair, and he tugged a little harder in response. He was rewarded with a fresh gush of wetness around his cock and a strained moan escaped his lips.

He released her hip and slid his hand down to find her swollen clit, pressing his fingers against it and feeling the shudder of pleasure run through her body as her walls clamped down tighter on his cock. Then he was rubbing in a steady motion along with the bucking of his hips, and his hand tugged her hair a little harder while he buried his engorged cock deeper and deeper inside, repeatedly dragging his length down the back of her clit. She was panting and squealing again, pressing her ass back into him and silently begging for more, burying his cock so deep inside the wet, throbbing heat of her cunt that he _never _wanted to pull it back out.

Her neck was craning back, her head being tugged back along with her hair wrapped up in his hand. But then she paused, just for a second, and reached up to grab his hand and purposefully move it to her throat, until his fingers were wrapped around her tiny neck and her pulse was thrumming against his sweaty palm. Their skin stuck together with sweat and he gently squeezed his fingers around her throat - like an old reflex, he immediately remembered how she _liked _it.

Her breathing became a little more labored and her pussy was drenched around his cock, her body melding into his until they were a single form experiencing all the same waves of ecstasy. A tingling ball of pressure was coming to life at the base of his cock and he recognized his body's warning signals, doing his best to force them away while still being pushed toward the edge by every little arch in Beth's back and every little strained moan that escaped her lips. She was close, too, he could _feel _it.

"Fuck - _fuck _me, baby - oh, _god_," she moaned, her voice high-pitched as she struggled to get enough air to speak.

He squeezed his fingers the tiniest bit tighter around her slim little neck and felt the wetness gushing around his cock, a particularly loud groan inadvertently escaping his lips as the sounds that poured from her mouth sent electrifying jolts of overwhelming pleasure through his every muscle. He rammed into her harder, into that tiny spot within the depths of her cunt that offered resistance against the head of his cock. His fingers continued to work her clit, and he was so consumed by the very edge of his climax that the cramps forming in his legs and wrists may as well have been non-existent. Her ass was slapping loudly against the sweaty skin of his groin.

Then she was gasping in a long breath, inhaling sharply and loudly, all her muscles going rigid around him. Her walls clenched down on his cock and he shoved with intent against _that _spot, pressing down on her clit and squeezing her throat, a shudder wracking through his body.

Her familiar moan/squeal echoed out in the small bedroom, long and breathless. "_Shit_, Daryl - I'm _coming…_!"

Finally, he could let go and enjoy that blissful tumble over the edge right along with her. And he did. With one last, hard thrust into her quivering pussy, his cock was spilling inside her, spewing his hot load and draining him of nearly every last ounce of energy he had.

Reflexively, he cried out after her, "Me, too, baby - oh _fuck_..."

His mind went completely blank for the briefest moment, and as his hand loosened around her throat, he felt their muscles melting into one another, their orgasms building and conjoining and completely ravaging their bodies. He was coming harder than he'd came in _months_.

When the hurricane of their climax washed away a few seconds later, they were left gasping and panting to catch their breaths, their skin flushed pink and covered in sweat, damp hair stuck to necks and backs and shoulders and chests. His legs were weak and jelly-like, but he quickly swooped his hand up to press his palm against her chest, pulling her back toward him until he could reach her shoulder with his lips. He kissed a small pattern on the pale skin there, soaking in the trembling of her tired muscles, faintly tasting her sweet perspiration.

"I love you," he whispered against her skin.

She hummed softly and breathed out, "I love _you_…"

Then he cupped the side of her face and turned her head toward him, pressing his chapped and swollen lips to hers, kissing her softly for a long minute. And as she kissed him back, he could hear those words repeating over and over in his head._ I love you._

* * *

She returned from the bathroom a few minutes later, shuffling and stumbling around on weak and shaky legs, still half-drunk and completely naked, glistening with a fine sheen of perspiration. Her hair was a tangled mess and her eyeliner and mascara had smeared black smudges around the corners of her eyes, but when the soft glow of the bedside lamp washed over her bare skin, Daryl's breath was knocked out of him and he _prayed _she wasn't about to put her clothes on and leave.

She'd asked to stay the night - as in, sleep _beside _him, right? She wasn't going to leave just because the sun was beginning to rise, was she? He wanted to wrap his arms around her small frame and bury his face in her hair. He wanted to smother himself in her warmth and sleep _well _for once. He wanted to wake up and find her smudged makeup all over his pillow.

Before she could bend over and begin rifling through the small pile of discarded clothes on the floor, he held up her little purple panties. She reached out and took them, quickly slipping them on.

"What, I can't keep 'em?" He teased, smirking as he watched her slide the panties up her thighs.

She scoffed and gave him an incredulous look, smirking back. "_Hell_ no, these are my favorite undies."

He chuckled and watched her pick up her camisole and pull it over her head as he sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but his boxers. He wasn't trying to, but suddenly, he was thinking to himself, _Why'd she wear her __**favorite **__panties tonight? Was she planning on comin' over - or was I the last resort when she couldn't go to that party and find a decent rebound? Is there some __**new **__Jimmy that she wanted ta fuck? Some dipshit college guy she's got her eye on? Was this just some kinda backup plan sex 'cause she had her heart set on getting laid tonight?_

_Did she say 'I love you' because she really does, or just 'cause she got lost in all those orgasms?_

Then she was striding over and turning on the small fan that sat on his dresser in the corner, pointing it towards the bed before making her way to the bedside table and switching off the lamp. He eagerly slipped beneath the covers and moved over to make room while she climbed in and joined him. She practically melted into her spot beside him, scooting in close until her warm back was pressed up against his front, the bends of their bodies interlocked.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her closer, and a tingling sensation ran down his spine when he felt her small hands over his knuckles, pulling him tighter around her and nuzzling back into his large frame. He buried his face in her hair and closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow down for fear that she could feel it pounding against her back.

He was speaking, mumbling wistfully into her neck before he could stop himself, still consumed by the afterglow of their climax, "I know it's - too soon. After him. But I _miss _you, baby. I dunno if I can jus' be _friends _with you… 'specially if it's like this."

He felt her tense up momentarily, then she squeezed his hands and sighed with exhaustion. "Don't… not tonight. We're both drunk."

But he couldn't resist. That barrier was finally down, and he didn't know how much longer it would remain that way. "Ain't _that _drunk… Can't tell me ya don't wanna give it another chance."

She tensed up again. "You miss me _now_, but I've _always_ missed you. It's only gonna end up jus' like before. One way or the other… why would you wanna drag it out all over again?"

He placed a soft kiss against her shoulder and buried his nose into the crook of her neck. "'Cause I love you. 'Cause it can be _different_. An' I'm an asshole, but I can try ta be… _better_."

"That doesn't make me any less _crazy_. You might be able ta change, but I can't seem to figure it out," she mumbled.

He kissed her shoulder again. "We could _both _be better."

She sighed and squirmed against him, her quiet voice cracking, "Don't."

He tightened his arms around her. "It could be _different_. We could forget all that other shit - I won't hold it against ya ever again. I know I fucked up, but I can _fix _it."

He could hear her swallowing hard before whispering hoarsely, "We've already said that before. A _million _times. It's never _different_, that stuff'll never go away, it can't be fixed_… _Sometimes, it jus' doesn't _matter _how much you _love _somebody."

_Then what the fuck __**does **__matter? What's the fucking __**point **__of love if it can't overcome all that other shit?! _He wanted to ask.

But the anger was far away and impossible to reach right now. He simply couldn't muster it when she was so close and so warm and so painfully vulnerable in his arms.

She pushed back against him, urging his lips against her shoulder once more. He let them linger there, kissing her lazily, drinking her in and attempting to flood out the aching in his stomach.

They lay together in the quiet of the dark bedroom, early morning sky barely lightening outside the windows. The fan hummed in the corner in sync with the vents on the walls, sending mixed waves of warm and cool air over the bed. Her body was hot against his beneath the blanket but he didn't loosen his grasp around her or pull away. A few long moments of silence passed and he began to think she'd fallen asleep.

Then she whispered softly, words half-slurred and heavy with sleep, "Doesn't matter if we're _together _or not. 'M _always _gonna be _yours_... I always _have _been."

He couldn't find the right response before her breathing steadied and her entire body relaxed against him, and then he knew it was too late because she'd already drifted off. He couldn't even convince himself that she'd been drunk-talking, or delusional on the edge of sleep, because he could physically _feel _the sincerity in her tone. And every part of him knew that he'd seen the very _real_ her all night tonight, unabashed and crying out for relief.

But had she _intended _to drag him back? To pull him along on her path of suffering and self-loathing? Was she trying to punish him for all the scars he'd left over the years? Trying to return the pain and even the score once and for all?

Or was she subconsciously and instinctively reaching out for him because she _knew _he wanted to save her? And that he was the only one who really _could_?

Before he could silence his stormy mind and drift off to sleep, he'd decided that she was punishing _both_ of them. Maybe not intentionally, but in her search for a quiet self-destruction, she'd found _him_. And he was more than willing to be her punching bag all over again.

He'd already convinced himself that it was the _least _he deserved.

**to be continued...**


	5. swim the ocean for you

**A/N: **"Kelsey" by Metro Station.

* * *

**swim the ocean for you**

When he drifted back into consciousness, the memories of the night before trickled through his brain like a slow-moving river. He could still smell her, and for a second, he thought he could feel her beside him. But then he opened his eyes and realized the bed was empty except for him, and so was the bedroom.

At first, his heart remained lifted with hope. He began to sit up, imagining walking out and hearing the shower running, or finding her smoking a cigarette in one of his oversized T-shirts on the balcony. Then his feet touched the floor and he looked down: her clothes were gone. Her phone was nowhere in sight. And the apartment was completely silent. Empty.

He rushed over to the doorway and peeked out into the living room. Her boots were gone, too. And her purse and coat. _She _was gone.

There was a fifty-dollar bill sitting beneath the Bluetooth speaker on the desk. And when he finally returned to the bedroom and picked up his phone, he found a single text message waiting for him. The timestamp was from two hours ago - while he was still dead asleep.

_The money is for my share of the bar tab.  
I love you. And my heart will always belong to you. I was always yours... But you've never been mine.  
I'll see you around. xoxo_

She'd always been a little overdramatic, and this was no exception. Nonetheless, he knew exactly what she meant.

There was no point in sending a text back. It would just be left as "Read" and end up causing him more grief.

He spent the rest of the morning lying in bed with a cramping stomach, fighting the urge to vomit. And he wasn't even sure it was because of the hangover.

* * *

He couldn't stop thinking about her. Not that he really tried to stop.

It certainly didn't help when she ended up texting him the next day, and then again a couple of days after that. Simple conversations that usually began with "how are you doing" or "what's up" and ending with "haha oh okay" or "lol yeah." He didn't dare push it any farther. He wouldn't allow his fingers to tap out the long and pathetic message that he _really_ wanted to send. Though his heart still leapt and raced every time he saw those little animated dots on his screen, every time he found a message with her name on it.

He wasn't sure what game they were playing, but he was almost positive that she was attempting to continue the 'just friends' charade. And he knew it wouldn't last - he had a strong feeling in his gut that it would end up falling apart as it always had before. But he couldn't resist indulging himself while he had the chance. Putting on his own facade, grasping at every opportunity to get just a _little _closer to her. He couldn't fight off the urge to reinsert himself into her life.

And how was he supposed to move on from someone who still haunted his dreams and weighed heavily on his mind every waking moment of every day? Just when he began to think he might be able to stop longing for her, he would get another message. And that thread would tighten itself around his entire being, yanking him back in.

He kept replaying their night together over and over in his head, relishing in the painfully euphoric sensation it brought to life at the bottom of his stomach - like reliving the last split-second of his orgasm before being stabbed upwards through his very core with a dull knife. A knife he'd been sharpening for years to no avail.

It was every other day for a couple of weeks. And then three long days passed without any word from her. She'd followed him on Instagram - after he'd made sure to unblock her - and he'd even gone as far as reactivating his Facebook account just to accept her friend request. It somehow made him feel like she was a part of his life again, like maybe they _could _be 'friends.' She didn't post very much, and she wasn't the type to broadcast her life over social media, so he didn't feel the need to check up on her or try to be nosey. But he couldn't help searching for clues or hints as to what she was up to after not receiving a text in a few days.

Her relationship status was still hidden - months and months ago, it had happily declared "in a relationship with Jimmy Duncan." Not anymore. Now she omitted that info altogether. Jimmy wasn't even in her friends list, nor was he following her. All the photos that contained his face or any hints of their relationship were deleted. It gave Daryl an odd and somewhat shameful satisfaction to discover that.

She'd been posting photos of her small group of friends out at bars and parties (no guys, though - he'd searched every photo for a potential suitor but there was none to be found). It appeared that when she wasn't working, she was drinking and hanging out with large groups of rambunctious college kids. The only thing that made him slightly curious was the caption below her latest photo, which was timestamped from a couple days prior - another shot of her and her half-drunk friends with red cups in their hands. The caption read: "_2 cool 4 school #sorrydad._"

But he didn't let himself overthink it. He remembered that those stupid social media posts could mean anything. And if she wanted to talk to him or involve him in her life, she would. He needed to continue moving on, living his own life and navigating the path that separated him from her. He was his own person. And she was hers. And if she wanted to find her way back to him… well, it wasn't like he'd made it difficult for her. _She _was the one who'd said 'see you around,' whatever that was supposed to mean. So if anything, the ball was in her court. It had _been _in her court.

At least, that's what he kept _telling _himself.

Three days was slipping into four and Daryl was sitting on the couch in his quiet little apartment, beer in hand as he watched a rerun of _King of The Hill _and prepared to head off to bed, the thought of work in the morning looming heavy. He didn't notice his phone vibrating at first until the screen lit up with a reminder during a commercial break. His heart leapt with excitement and he knew it was her even before he saw her name on the screen. Or maybe he'd just been _really _hoping.

The text simply read: "_What are you doing?_"

He immediately typed out a response and sent it: "_Hanging out at home. You?_"

A minute passed, and then two. He finally gave up and darkened his phone's screen, embarrassed with himself for sitting and staring at it, waiting to see those little dots appear. And just as he set the phone down beside him on the couch, the screen lit up once again with a new text message.

_At some stupid party with Brittany and Lauren. They won't stop playing dubstep. Kinda debating on burning the place down._

He smirked, moving to type out a response. But he paused and waited when he saw the dots appear. Then her next message arrived.

_I miss you. Can I come over?_

He briefly contemplated responding with, "Why?" Or even, "Gotta work in the morning." But it was way too late in the night, and his small apartment was way too cold and empty. And that strength that seemed to come to him in the light of day was nowhere to be found when he really needed it, like right now. And who was he to try and lie, to try and tell her that he didn't miss her, too? To try and act as though those exact words weren't what he'd been waiting to hear from her for the last two weeks?

What kind of fool would he be to say no?

Sure, she might be playing a game. But it was a game that he knew all too well, and a game that he simply couldn't turn away from. Whatever the rules were, he _knew _her. And she knew him. And they both knew that those rules could be bent and broken and manipulated to fit their current circumstances.

Besides, if she felt uncomfortable where she was, then how shitty of a person did he have to be to turn her away? Even if she only wanted a safe place to escape to for a few hours, he was more than happy to oblige. More than happy to sacrifice his sleep for the reassurance that she was okay.

_Miss you too. Need me to come pick you up?_

_No, I just ordered an Uber. See you in 20._

* * *

"Oh my _god_, so this guy was like - he was such a _generic _dude, all cocky and _not _even cute. And he came over to me - keep in mind, he _interrupted _me an' Lauren's conversation - and he was jus' like, 'oh, here, I made you a drink.' So I looked at him an' I was just like, 'um, what is it?' _Right_? And like, I already _had _a drink in my hand, and it was almost gone, but still - kinda _weird_, right?! And he goes, 'it's a screwdriver.' So I just _looked _at the drink an' I looked at him, and I - _oh my gosh_, I was just like: 'um, no thanks. I'm a _whiskey _kinda gal.' And he got _so _mad! Oh my _god_, it was so _mean_, but me and Lauren were laughing _so _hard…"

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her glowing face, the pink in her cheeks, the bright blue in her eyes, the cheerful squeal of her voice as she threw her head back and laughed loudly. She was half-slurring her words, excitedly telling him story after story from her night and the disaster of a party she'd just left. He hadn't even turned her down when she helped herself to the beer in his fridge and offered him one.

He tried not to focus on the minor details, the parts that he knew didn't really _mean _anything yet still felt like they _meant _something. Like when she slipped her boots off and set them by the door, or when she plopped down on the couch and curled her legs up beneath her like she lived there. Like when she clinked the necks of their beer bottles together and grinned at him with sparkling-white teeth and raised eyebrows, a hint of mischief nestled deep within those cornflower blues. The slur in her voice and the excessive "like"s and "ohmygod"s told him that she was feeling good, but it didn't tell him anything else he wanted to know. Like where she was staying for the night or what her exact intentions with him were.

Was this what _friends _did? He'd never had many friends, let alone friends who were women, so he wasn't sure. Either way, he was fairly certain that whatever was going on between them right now would feel weird no matter what amount of experience he might have with platonic relationships.

She concluded another story about the party and her two friends she'd been with, and then she was standing up and walking over to the balcony door, sliding it open and asking him if he wanted to smoke a cigarette with her. He took a long swig of beer and tried not to think about having to go to work in the morning, then got up from the couch and joined her on the tiny balcony.

The night air wasn't as cold as he'd expected, and while they leaned against the guardrail and smoked cigarettes side-by-side, he felt her leaning into him, closer and closer with every moment. Once again, it was like just another night on the balcony. Except it wasn't.

"Don't you gotta work in the morning?" She asked, gazing over at him with half-focused eyes.

"Unfortunately," he mumbled before taking a long drag off his cigarette and holding the smoke in his lungs. He willed the tension in his muscles to go away, but it was impossible when she was so close. "Ain't you got school or somethin'?"

She shrugged dismissively. "I don't work till five. I, uh - kinda dropped outta school."

He looked at her quizzically. "Huh? You serious?"

Her lips were pressed tightly together as she nodded, eyes flicking away in shame.

"When?"

She swallowed a gulp of beer and responded, "Few days ago. Hadn't been ta class in a couple weeks, though. Jus' - I don't have the _energy _for it anymore."

"Wha - how come? Ain't yer daddy mad?" His curiosity was instinctive. He had a genuine cause for concern now, and the 'no prying' rules definitely didn't apply here.

She scoffed, exhaling a large cloud of cigarette smoke and watching it fade away. "Yeah, he's pretty upset. Disappointed. But I'm an _adult_, an' he knows that. I'm gettin' a second job so I can afford my own place."

"Yer own place - where?"

"Here, in the city. Close ta _both _a my jobs, so I can save money. I'll just walk to work all the time. Then I can save up an' _hopefully _go back to school… later. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it, though."

His brow knitted together and he studied her, watching as she threw back a gulp of beer and inhaled a lungful of nicotine and tar. There was worry etched deeply into the lines of her face - worry and _fear_. But he was pretty sure that he was the only one who could see it. She was doing a better job of hiding it these days, of speaking like she knew exactly what she was doing and wasn't going to stop until she got what she wanted. And she was utilizing the reliable old cover of unhealthy vices like a pro, pouring her sorrows and weaknesses into empty bottles and burnt-out butts.

_Guess ya learned from the best on that one, _he thought bitterly.

She couldn't drown out _his _worry and fear, though. He didn't like the thought of her living alone in the city, walking to two jobs with no one to make sure she's safe. "Why don't ya move in with one a yer friends? Ain't they always needin' roommates?"

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "_Definitely_ not. Brittany already has more roommates than she wants since Aubrey moved her new boyfriend in. An' I _won't _live with Abby again, not after last time. Everybody else is movin' back with their parents or livin' on campus."

"You need money or somethin'? 'S that it?" He asked, and when her eyes met his, he quickly added before he had a chance to wimp out, "I could help ya if ya need. 'Least, I could _try_."

She responded flatly, "No. I don't need yer help - I don't need anythin' else that somebody can hold over my head."

He reflexively grew defensive. "I don't _want _nothin' ta hold over yer head, I just wanna _help _you."

She shook her head and downed another swig of beer before explaining, "No, you don't _get it_, Daryl. I wanna be _self-sufficient _for once. I wanna _actually _rely on myself - _nobody _else. Me an' my dad have been fightin' non-stop since I moved back and _all _he's done is _guilt _me fer 'wasting his money on expensive vet school' and 'letting myself lose sight of my priorities.' Like I don't already fuckin' _hate _myself enough, he has ta keep reminding me an' just… constantly _holding _it over my _head_. If I don't get outta there, I'm gonna go off the deep end."

He watched her take a leisurely drag from the cigarette pinched between her fingers, and as the smoke curled out from between her lips into the cold night air, the only thing he could think to say was, "Oh."

Her eyes flicked away and stared out at the darkened coffee shop across the street, and finally, he found the right words he'd wanted to use, though he spoke tentatively. "Well - he _cares _about ya. He's prob'ly worried. 'M sure he ain't _intentionally _holdin' it over yer head. You're all he's got now, 'course he's gonna want the best for ya."

He saw the pain flash across her features momentarily, as though she were physically wincing at his statement. For a second, he feared he'd said the wrong thing, and a flood of memories flashed through his head to remind him of one of the many places he'd always gone wrong, one of the many things he'd always fucked up. Was he _lecturing _her again? Acting like a know-it-all and _patronizing _her? Or could she tell that it was coming from a place of deep concern this time?

She ashed her cigarette a little harder than necessary and kept her eyes on the skyline in the distance, and her voice was laced with bitter resentment and unresolved conflict. But it wasn't directed at him. "That's the problem, though - I'm _all _he's got… He found out that Maggie had a baby last month an' now he's back ta calling her every single day and getting his heart _broken _when she never calls back... I can't _be _the daughter he _wants _when the daughter he _wants _won't even _speak _to him."

Daryl felt a burst of sympathy in his chest and inhaled the last decent drag off his cigarette before tossing it over the guardrail. The question burst from his mouth in disbelief before he could stop it, "Yer sister had a _baby_?"

He could see Beth rolling her eyes and puffing out cigarette smoke through gritted teeth. Then she mumbled, "Yeah - a boy. I only found out 'cause I saw it on Facebook."

_Fucking Maggie,_ he thought.

He still couldn't understand how someone could abandon their family like that, cut them off completely and act like they didn't even exist. Even after all the shit Merle had pulled, Daryl never _once _thought of cutting him off or walking away. They were _blood_. Although Merle had left a time or two when he really should've stuck around... but he'd never been the most _reliable _person on the planet to begin with, so Daryl couldn't really fault him for it.

Or maybe Daryl was still making excuses for his pathetic big brother. That was one of those things that Beth had always seemed to have figured out way before him - she'd stopped making excuses for Maggie a long time ago. She'd made the choice to continue on with her life despite her bitch of an older sister, she'd decided to keep trying to be the best daughter she could be for her daddy.

But she was in way over her head. Always had been. There were rifts in her family that simply couldn't be fixed, no matter how badly she wanted to fix them herself, no matter how hard she pushed for them to move on with their lives and find a new state of normalcy. And now she was finally accepting that fact.

He watched her push away from the guardrail and turn toward him, and his eyes flicked down to her tight jeans, as though he could see the scars through the denim. He wanted to ask if that was why she'd started hurting herself, if her sister and her sister's fucked up perception of family was the cause for her current pain and frustration and misdirection. If the heavy load weighing on her shoulders was pushing her down a path of slow self-destruction.

But she must've seen the question forming on his lips, because she quickly put on a stiff smile and he saw the mixture of fear and pain and uncertainty being pushed down, hastily shoved away and hidden beneath the brightness of her blue eyes. She was putting on her plastic mask, her Resilient Beth look, despite how flimsy it had become, despite how utterly pointless it was - especially with him.

And then she was reaching out and wrapping her dainty fingers around his wrist ever-so-gently, sending a tingle of longing rushing up his arm and straight through his chest, and she locked onto his gaze with her raised eyebrows and almost-genuine smile. She lightly tugged at his wrist as she stepped back toward the open balcony door. Her voice came out lighter, tinged with forced optimism.

"But hey, _fuck _that bitch. I'm tryin' ta keep this buzz goin'. C'mon, babe - let's do a shot!"

And how could he turn her down when she was calling him _babe_ again?

* * *

There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on his counter that she helped herself to, pouring out two shots and eagerly clinking the tiny glasses together with him while she happily declared, "_EFF_. _DEE_. _BEE_. Fuck. Dat. Bitch! Fuck _all _the bitches in our lives." And then they'd downed the shots simultaneously.

It burned going down his throat but he was unaffected. So was she, apparently. He missed the way her nose used to scrunch up at the taste of straight liquor. Now it was like she'd grown accustomed to the taste and the sensation. Just like he had over the years, way before ever meeting her.

She didn't want to wallow in misery tonight, that much was clear. She wasn't even willing to let herself slip back down that slope of self-loathing like last time. He was almost disappointed. A part of him wanted, _badly_, to confront her about the cuts on her thigh while they were both relatively sober and completely clothed. Another part of him wanted to bring up the conversation they'd had in bed, even if it meant arguing about the overdramatic text she'd sent after disappearing while he was asleep. He was ready to argue, to have a heated disagreement about the state of their relationship and what kind of twisted road it was that she was currently leading him down. He was ready to peel back old skin and clean their wounds once and for all.

But she knew him too well, and she could practically read him like a book, and he sensed that she was picking up on the nagging thoughts in his head and doing her best to steer their conversations in every other direction except _that _direction. He might've been ready to be back to _that _level of comfort with her, but she wasn't ready to be there with him. At least not tonight.

She was back to telling funny stories about her drunk friends and their stupid parties, and though he tried not to, Daryl listened closely for any mentions of other guys. But he could no longer tell whether she was omitting them or not, and the only thing he was sure of was that she was completely skipping over any and every story involving Jimmy or Jimmy's friends. The pain was still flickering noticeably in her eyes, and she was continuously pushing it down farther and farther. He tried to crack small jokes here and there, urging a smile to form on her chapped lips, and it worked. They laughed together, occasionally reminiscing on old memories from _before_, but never lingering in the past for long.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey and swigged it down in less than ten minutes, then quickly poured another one. She giggled and squealed when he playfully pressed a cold beer to the back of her neck while her back was turned and he felt the fluttering come to life in his stomach like another painful reminder.

Were those walls back up tonight, or had he successfully torn them down? He still couldn't tell. Or maybe he was just an _idiot_. He certainly felt like one, especially around her. He'd always been a complete moron when it came to gauging her emotions. He never could seem to figure out how to read her mind like she read his.

They laughed some more, shared brief touches of hands and arms and hips. They took another shot together after a half-slurred story about Brittany's shitty boyfriend getting into a fist fight with one of Lauren's weekend flings. Daryl's tongue loosened on its own, plenty lubricated by the mixture of whiskey and beer and Beth's intoxicating presence, and then he was telling his own stupid story about Dwight nearly getting into a fight with some asshole at the bar a few weekends back.

It wasn't often that he had a story worth telling her, but a lot had happened while they'd been apart, and the enraptured look on her face as she grinned and listened to his dumb tale - laughing and frowning and scoffing accordingly in reaction to what he was telling her - made him eager to share anything and everything. Her focus on him was like a whole new high that he could never quite get enough of. It always had been. She was the only woman left that made him feel like he needed to _impress _her. The only _person _left that _could _make him feel like needed to impress them - or rather, _wanted _to.

She was still the only person he wanted to talk to at the end of the day, the only person he wanted to confide in or lean on for support. Spending several months without speaking to her at all had taken a toll on him. Whenever something good happened, she was always the first person he thought of, the first person he wanted to share it with. And the same went for bad days, or unexpected events. But he'd had to hold it all inside, choosing to confide only what he was comfortable with to the very few friends he had left, and only when it didn't feel like he was burdening them with his bullshit.

Being without her had been like missing an entire piece of himself, in more ways than one. He'd lost his best friend, his confidante, his most trusted and loyal partner in life. He'd been so absolutely misdirected without her reliable guiding light to show him the way. Without her scalding tone to point out where he was wrong and urge him to be better. Because she was the only one who'd ever really believed that he _could _be better.

And as they sat together on the couch, clinking together their beer bottle and whiskey glass in cheers before taking long swigs, her words rolled around in his head and all the images she'd described lingered in his mind and he _longed _for this exact comfort and security. This place of safety, where they could both be themselves and talk shit on all the assholes in their lives and be completely unafraid of judgement or conflict, pouring out their deepest disappointments right alongside their highest points of confidence.

This place where she was sitting close beside him on the couch with her legs curled up beneath her and their thighs touching. Where her voice and her half-drunken laughter was filling his ears and lifting the heaviness in his chest. Where the muted TV was casting a dim glow across them both and the night dragged on later and time seemed to disappear altogether, ceasing to matter. Where her breath smelled like alcohol and cigarettes and something fruity and she was running her fingers through her long, golden tendrils and pushing them out of her face and locking her glazed, bloodshot eyes onto his. And he was fighting back the strong urge to wrap his arm around her and pull her in, to press his mouth to hers and taste her again.

He was too busy soaking in the moment and letting her familiar scent fill his nostrils to realize that she was squinting at the top of his head and leaning in closer, until her hand was reaching out and she was gently grabbing the side of his head to tilt it down and pull him toward her, leaning in to investigate.

"Oh my gosh, is that _gray hair_?" She asked, giggling lightly as she ran her fingers through a few particular strands of hair at the top of his head.

He jerked his head away and frowned at her but didn't pull back. "Don't _look _at it - you know I'm old, ain't gotta point it out."

She laughed and he couldn't help but smirk at the sound. "Yer _not _old - but you _do _need a haircut. An' maybe a root touch-up…?"

He playfully nudged her arm and grumbled, "Shut up." Then he ruffled the back of his shaggy hair and scoffed. It was true, he _was _in need of a haircut. But he'd been trying really hard to _ignore _those grays appearing from the top of his scalp.

Beth continued smiling, chuckling softly before taking a sip of beer. Then she shrugged. "It don't look bad on you, though."

He rolled his eyes and glanced down at her pale hands wrapped around her beer bottle. Then he smirked as a distant memory popped into his head, and naturally, he wanted to share it with her. "'Least it don't look as bad as that time I shaved it all off."

Her bright blue eyes flashed with recognition and her smile grew wider. "Oh my _god_, that was _such _a bad look on you!" She laughed, shaking her head. "But ta be fair, that was the same summer where I thought it'd be a good idea to _bleach _my hair. So we were both lookin' like a hot mess."

He chuckled and took a sip of whiskey, wisps of moments from a summer that felt like so long ago drifting through his head. It made his stomach turn and flip and he took another long sip to calm it. He could see on her face that she was thinking about the same thing, but he also knew from experience that she probably had an entirely different slew of memories that popped up when she was reminded of that summer. Sometimes, he didn't quite understand how or why she remembered the things she did, or why she let herself get stuck on them. Then again, he probably did the same thing without even realizing it. They were both guilty of stacking the weights on their own shoulders a little higher and heavier than necessary.

Then his glass was empty and he was about to stand up and go to the kitchen to pour another one, but her voice stopped him and drew his attention once more. "That was the summer when you left me at that bar - 'member? You forgot about me an' I had ta call you after I waited outside fer like, thirty minutes."

She laughed lightly through the whole thing like it was a funny story, but he could see the pain that was still prevalent in her eyes and her crooked half-smile. And he didn't force himself to smirk back, nor did he try to hide the frown that formed on his mouth.

"I didn't _forget _about you - jus' said that so you wouldn't think I was…"

What had he been afraid of her thinking back then that he could still justify being afraid of now? Nothing. There was no point in keeping up stupid little white lies after everything that happened.

"I left 'cause I was _scared_," he finished.

It might make him sound like more of an asshole - somehow he'd thought, for years, that lying and saying he was so drunk that he'd 'forgotten' she was at the bar with him, that he'd thought she'd already left without him, was better than just being honest and admitting that he was terrified of how serious things had been getting with her. Of all the _weird _emotions he'd begun feeling for her and all the expectations that came along with them. Expectations that he knew he could never meet.

It didn't matter now. She already knew he was a lying, unreliable, sad sack of shit. Might as well own up to all of it. Even if didn't do a damned thing to fix all the scarring memories she'd been left with.

Her smile faltered and disappeared and she looked back at him with slight confusion, brow slowly knitting together. "Scared? ...Of _what_?"

He shrugged, glancing away almost shamefully. "I'ono - _everything_, I guess. _You_. Bein' around you was - somethin' else. Still is. But I didn't know how ta act. I was terrified I'd scare ya off fer good. Or I'd fuck it up somehow an' you'd realize what an _asshole _I am."

She laughed humorlessly and he looked up to meet her gaze just in time to see her shaking her head. "Yer so stupid sometimes. 'M pretty sure there was _nothin' _that you could've done that coulda scared me off. I was _infatuated _with you. It broke my heart when I thought you'd _forgotten _I was there, like you thought I'd actually leave without sayin' goodbye first. I sat out front with the door guy for half an hour an' talked about how I was fallin' in _love _with you. Then I saw yer truck driving off - without me. I felt like a… fuckin' _idiot_." She ended with another dry and humorless laugh before tipping the beer bottle back and draining it down her throat.

He frowned deeper and avoided her gaze, looking down at the floor instead, empty glass clutched tightly in his hand. "I know. I made a goddamn fool outta you. But ya got me back for it eventually."

_Should've kept that last part to myself, _he scolded himself._ She didn't come over to argue, why can't I keep my pride put away for a few hours? This ain't the game I wanna be playin'._

"I didn't _want _to," she said softly. Her voice cracked like there was a knot forming in her throat. When had she become so vulnerable in place of becoming defensive? Was that the alcohol, or the new version of Beth talking?

He quickly shrugged and stood up from the couch, turning and walking to the kitchen, trying not to grip the empty glass in his hand so tightly. Just like all the other habits, it was way too easy to fall into that familiar game of 'you hurt me, I'll hurt you' with her. But he was determined to be better, to _show _her that he was better. To prove that he wasn't going to linger on old resentments anymore, and that he was really, truly prepared to put it all behind them.

Was it even believable, though? Or was he trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince her?

He heard the familiar sound of fingernails tapping on a phone screen while he poured himself another whiskey and opened another cold beer. Within seconds, he was returning to the couch, holding out the beer for her to take before he took a sip of his fresh drink. He couldn't help but catch a glimpse of her phone screen right before she darkened it and tucked it away - was that the Tinder app she had open, or…? She took the beer and thanked him, leaving her empty bottle on the coffee table and taking a swig from the full one.

He brushed off the bristling ends of jealousy and paranoia, taking his seat beside her and sinking back down into the cushions, letting their thighs press together as her warmth rushed up his side. He was resisting the urge to revisit that sour memory they'd been discussing because he knew it would end up sounding like a pathetic string of useless apologies and more bitter resentment. He didn't trust his pride to stay small and hidden, as it had a tendency to swell and defend his selfish actions, no matter how wrong they might've been.

Then she was speaking, her tone lighter and full of genuine reminiscence rather than thinly-veiled remorse, chuckling softly and leaning into him a little closer. "'Member that guy with the hot tub an' the coke - and we were _so _sure he was like, some kinda _sex deviant_ or somethin'?"

A dozen scattered images washed over Daryl's mind and he smirked, grunting in amusement and nodding. "Yeah, I remember. What was 'is name - Alex?"

She nodded, "Yeah, Alex! That's it."

He grunted again and continued, "Only reason I went is 'cause the dude wore a suit an' drove a Mercedes. We outnumbered him, wasn't no way he was gonna try anythin' weird anyway."

She laughed. "He wasn't even _weird_, he gave me his business card an' everything! _You _only went 'cause you wanted ta make sure I wasn't gonna be _kidnapped _or something - just admit it."

He chuckled and his smile widened. "I knew nothin' was gonna happen to ya - had those other three girls an' that dude Lauren was datin' with ya. 'Sides, I think Alex was more scared a _you _than he was of me."

She rolled her eyes and giggled, taking another sip of beer. "Yeah, alright. So you only went for the free coke an' the hot tub, right?"

He carefully swirled the whiskey around in his glass and scoffed, unable to force back the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Nah - I went 'cause _you _was goin'. An' I wasn't _about _ta let you outta my sight when I know how good ya look in a bikini. Glad I went, too, 'cause ya _did_ look fuckin' good in that hot tub. Ol' Alex was eyeballin' you all night."

She laughed and shook her head and he saw the pink creeping up her neck and filling her cheeks as she lifted the beer bottle to her lips again. Then she ran a hand through her long blonde hair, pushing it back out of her face, blue eyes flickering and flashing as he wondered what was going through her mind. How many other times did they share together that lingered in her mind to this day? How many of her memories were plagued by his presence? Did they bring her joy or discomfort when she thought about them?

Right now, he was pretty sure she felt joy. The alcohol kept a half-smile plastered on her face and she was gazing back at him thoughtfully. Then she asked, "You remember that night you got us kicked outta the bar 'cause you got into it with that one dude?"

His chest deflated a bit and his smirk faded. He nodded and took a small sip of whiskey before responding, "Yeah - _barely_. I was plastered that night."

She laughed and raised her eyebrows, nodding and emphasizing her agreement, "_Yeah_, you were. I think you knocked out one of his teeth, but he slammed yer head into the brick wall an' it wouldn't stop _bleeding_. I was so scared, I was about ta call a fuckin' ambulance. But you wouldn't _let _me."

His mouth was a thin line now and the shame was flooding his chest. He took a long sip of whiskey, then grumbled, "Yeah. I was a stupid asshole..."

Her amused smile faded and she shrugged, as if she were shrugging off and excusing all of his inexcusable actions, leaving them in the past where they belonged. But not before one last visit, not before one last reminiscence and reflection on times gone by and mistakes long made. "Yeah, you kinda were. But it was my fault, too - 'cause I was talkin' to the guy an' you saw him puttin' his arm around me. I was tryin' ta make you _jealous_. 'Cause you wouldn't admit that you liked me the same way I liked you… I was an asshole, too."

He shook his head. "Nah, you weren't. Ya shouldn't've had ta put up with that - I was a dick. Too damn stubborn an' bull-headed to admit a girl could get under my skin. 'Specially a girl like _you_."

Her smile slowly reappeared. She giggled softly and it eased some of the tension in his tightened-up back. Then she added, "I thought you were gonna be done with me after that night. You were so mad, an' you wouldn't let me _help _you."

One side of his mouth tugged upward at a faint smirk as he locked onto her gaze and admitted, "I was mad 'cause I didn't know how ta _deal _with it. I didn't want you gettin' yer hopes up in me jus' ta be let down when ya realized how _useless _I actually am… But then I woke up an' you was still there."

She shrugged almost sheepishly and mumbled, "I was worried. I had ta make sure you weren't gonna bleed ta death or go into a coma while you were sleepin' or somethin'."

"Yeah - an' that's when I realized you cared about me. _Really _cared about me. Like I cared about you," he said, his heart skipping.

This wasn't the first time they'd discussed and dissected that particular memory, that pivotal night in the timeline of their relationship, but it was the first time he'd finally told her what it had actually _meant _to him. Too little, too late, he knew. It didn't matter anymore. If anything, he was sure that night had only showed her a brief glimpse of what else was to come: a lot of one-sided worry, a lot of her trying to care for him while he kept pushing back and declining her concern, denying the clear evidence of her love. A lot of him being stupid and making shitty decisions out of anger, letting his temper get the best of him and lashing out, trying his best to drink away all the nagging feelings that he didn't understand and didn't want to deal with. If she'd been smarter, maybe older and more experienced, she would've seen that he was showing her exactly what she was signing up for, and she would've turned tail and run as fast as she could in the other direction. Instead, she'd latched on tighter and tighter until he had no choice but to open up that cracked metal shell that surrounded him and let her in, little by little.

He'd known, all along, that she'd been trying to make him jealous that night. He could still see her sitting at that bar with that scrawny, brown-haired kid, watching his weasly little arm wrap around her middle and pull her closer to his barstool. Some shithead college kid, no doubt. Some kid that she started talking to when she realized Daryl was ignoring her and allowing another woman to get up into his personal space, buy him drinks, and play pool with him. It was years ago now, but it still incited a flame of pure rage in the deepest part of his belly at the recollection. The rage used to be directed at Beth, but now it was at himself. He'd been stupid, so _fucking stupid_. Immature and undeserving of a girl like Beth. He couldn't even remember what the bitch looked like that he'd been hanging out with that night, but he knew that he was wrong for making Beth jealous of someone who could _never _match up to her. He was despicable for making her feel like she needed to compete with _anyone_.

So many stupid fucking mistakes. Like a breadcrumb trail of bad choices and shitty behavior. He didn't like visiting this path, walking down it with her. Not like this. Not when he knew that she was no longer his and might never be again. It made the memories all that much more painful.

She must've been able to read it on his face. Either that or the alcohol had made her attention span a little shorter than usual. They sipped their drinks and then she smiled like she'd just remembered something exciting.

"Oh - what're you gonna do fer yer birthday?" She asked, bright eyes focusing on him while she smiled expectantly.

A pang of dread shot through his gut and he shrugged, taking another swig from the glass in his hand. He'd been trying not to think about his impending birthday, another marker of one more year passing by with no movement forward and nothing to show for it except more gray hair, wrinkles, and aching bones. Another reminder that he was well past his prime and growing closer to death with every second, closer to disappearing and being forgotten forever, having done nothing but wasted some of the Earth's resources and taken up valuable space in a crowded world.

"I'ono. Dwight said somethin' about goin' to the bar… Ain't gonna be nothin' special. Jus' gonna get drunk so I can forget about how old an' decrepit I am."

She giggled and leaned forward, playfully slapping his arm. "Oh, c'mon, it's yer _birthday_! We should do _somethin' _for it. I'm down ta go to the bar with you an' Dwight - I haven't seen him in a while."

Daryl furrowed his brow and gave her a skeptical look. "What - you wanna spend m'birthday with me?"

She nodded. "Well, yeah."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's yer _birthday_? And we're friends…? D'you not _want _me to?"

_Friends. Friends. Just friends…?_

He swallowed hard and glanced away from her eyes, down at his glass. "'Course I want ya to. Jus' - didn't expect _you _ta want to."

She scoffed and took a swig of beer. "Well, I do. So lemme know what the plan is an' I'll be there. Deal?"

He nodded and tentatively lifted his gaze to meet hers again. "Alrigh'. I will."

Why was it so fucking _impossible _for him to say no to her?

**to be continued...**

* * *

**A/N:** The night is not over for them. Next chapter picks up where this leaves off and dives quickly into another smut scene :)  
Make sure you check out the Spotify playlist for this fic!


	6. if i cut my hair, hawaii will sink

**A/N: **"If I Cut My Hair, Hawaii Will Sink" by Chiodos.

* * *

**if i cut my hair, hawaii will sink**

It wasn't so much _habitual _as it was _natural _when they ended up curled and nuzzled together on the couch, a blanket thrown over them and all the lights turned off, nothing but the glow of the TV and the sounds of a Netflix movie playing on the screen while they watched.

It had been her idea, of course. To "watch something funny on Netflix." After they spent half an hour sitting close together while she showed him dozens of memes and funny videos on her phone that she said had 'reminded her of him' during their time apart - and she seemed to have saved every single one in the hopes of getting a chance to share a few laughs with him sometime in the future. He tried not to read too much into what that could mean. Although he knew the feeling all too well. He couldn't even count all the times he'd seen or heard something that he'd immediately wanted to share with her, only to quickly realize that they weren't speaking anymore.

And now she was lying with her head on his chest, their bodies intertwined and the blanket tucked in around them, her small arms wrapped around his middle and his large hands resting atop her warm back. Her hair tickled his chin and he could smell nothing except her flowery conditioner but he liked it that way. She was warm against him and she weighed practically nothing, even as she lay nearly completely on top of his body. They were forced to snuggle even closer due to the limited space on the couch. But now her heartbeat had synchronized with his, and so had her breathing, and he could feel her cheek moving against his chest every time she smiled, and the vibration that her soft laughter sent through his ribcage whenever she laughed at a funny part in the movie.

And it felt like _home_.

He couldn't have possibly cared less that it was nearing four in the morning. He was still dreading having to get up early for work, especially after so many drinks and so little sleep, but every second he got to spend with her was worth it. He hadn't even had the willpower to ask her if she needed a ride home or if she was staying the night or _what_. He was partially afraid that it would bring the end of their night closer. Like maybe she _forgot _that she had somewhere else to be. Maybe she lost track of other priorities and responsibilities when she was around him, just like he did when he was around her.

If she was trying to convince herself - or him - that they were better off as friends, then she was doing a poor job so far. He was pretty sure that _friends _didn't cuddle like this on the couch, or cuddle at all. Nor did they make each other come.

They were past the halfway mark in the movie when he felt her lifting her head from his chest. He looked down to find her heavy-lidded eyes gazing up at him through a few loose tendrils of blonde hair. Her chin was resting on his breastbone, and she licked her lips before speaking quietly through a hoarse throat.

"You _know _that yer the best friend I've ever had… right? Like, you're still my _best friend_."

Had the liquor settled in her head while she was lying down and relaxing? Was she speaking through whiskey slurs and beer breath, or was it another veracious outpouring from a well-oiled tongue? Sometimes he _hated _how honest alcohol made her. She'd always been complete _shit _at controlling her inhibitions, mostly when it came to her verbal outbursts.

But he couldn't look away from her intense cornflower blue gaze, and once again, he didn't have the strength to pull himself out of her gravity. She was reading his mind, again and again and again. And then she was _telling _him about it. And it made his stomach feel like it might begin eating itself. Or maybe that was the whiskey.

He had to clear his throat before he could respond, his voice low and breathy. "What about Brittany? Or Lauren?"

He was prepared to list off more names but she shook her head and smirked lazily, eyelids lowering for a brief second as she huffed out a breath against the cotton of his T-shirt. "No - they're… barely _friends_. We don't really talk about anything. They don't _care_. Whenever I have a really good day or a bad day, or somethin' _happens _\- I always wanna tell _you _first. It's always a - a _battle _with myself ta not text you or call you or whatever…"

His hand found its way up her back to the nape of her neck, and he pressed his palm against her warm skin, tangled his fingers in her thick hair. She barely leaned into his touch and he could feel the unspoken words surging between their shared body heat, echoing in their jilting heartbeats.

"Me, too," he whispered, watching thick black eyelashes flutter against milky skin before he was thrown back by the yearning that radiated from her watery blue eyes.

She was staring right through him again, whether she realized it or not. "I love you."

The way she said it made it sound nearly _pained_. His lungs tightened and he swallowed hard, and his hand gripped the back of her neck a little harder. He was urging her closer against him, pulling her nearer inch by tentative inch.

"Ya ain't _gotta _say that," he mumbled, staring into her eyes and studying them carefully.

She frowned briefly and blinked. "I know I don't _got to_. But I _want _you ta _know_."

"Why? If it ain't ever gonna work again - then what's it matter?"

Maybe the liquor was giving him loose lips tonight, too. Or maybe it was just _her_, in all her honesty and vulnerability, colliding with his bruised ego and broken pride. Maybe he was completely powerless to stop himself from wanting her, _needing _her, in the same way that she seemed to be powerless to stopping herself from being drawn back to him.

At least now, he was learning how to be truly _reliable_.

"If you don't want me ta say it anymore, I won't," she muttered, her eyes darkening.

He could feel her beginning to tense up atop him and he immediately regretted his choice of response. Why did he keep doing this? Falling back into this pathetic little game? What was it about being with her that made him turn into a different version of himself? He wanted to be _better_. But goddammit, she made it so _hard _sometimes. How was he supposed to act? What was he supposed to do? What did she _expect _of him?

Why did her mouth keep saying _we will never have another chance_, while every other part of her kept telling him, _please keep trying, it's not over yet_?

"'S not what I meant," he grumbled.

A flicker of hope dashed across her face as she gazed up at him, though her muscles were still tensing. She blinked.

He quietly added, "You _know _I love you… An' you know why that shit hurts. Fer me."

He could see her swallowing hard and then nodding slowly, her eyes flicking away from his momentarily. Then she was resting her head on his chest once again, relaxing into him, pressing her body closer against his. His heart sped up and he knew she could hear it and feel it. And she squeezed him tighter.

Despite her physical grasping at him, he could sense her silently pulling away and beginning to close off. He knew what she wanted: to live in the moment, to relish in a past that was long gone and out of reach. She wanted to pretend they were _there_ again, like they'd never even left. She wasn't _intentionally _doing it at his expense, but it was still very much at his expense. He wasn't equipped to handle that kind of emotional ping-pong game, even with all his rusty armor and cracked shields poised and prepared to stave off the overwhelming sense of loss. He didn't have the strength to delve into that fantasy with her again, not when it had become so fucking _hard _to pull himself out time and time again. He was already so close to falling apart.

It felt like she was handing him a knife and demanding that he slice open every vein in his body, just for her. Like she was demanding to see the intricacies of his tendons and nerves, but refusing to help him stitch it back up. She just wanted his _blood_. She wanted him to pour himself out at her feet so she could use it as warpaint in her quiet battles.

If he let her, she'd sap every last bit of sanity and competence he had left inside him. Every remaining ounce of hope and optimism and motivation to be _good_. He knew she didn't _mean _to be, but sometimes, she was like a tiny vampire with a direct line to his life source. And sometimes, he was tempted to let her suck him completely dry, with no fights or complaints.

It wasn't like he could _ever _do any better than her anyway.

Without really thinking about it, he slid his hands down the length of her back until his palms were cupping her ass, fingers digging into the crevice above the back of her thighs, pulling her in closer against him hips-first. Wordlessly pleading for her forgiveness, begging her to understand his grief and pain and reluctance, to welcome him inside once again and _reassure_ him.

She read his silent body language almost immediately, deciphering his unspoken apology, and melded into him. Her muscles untensed and her hips bucked into his as if on reflex. _Come back home, _they seemed to cry.

Once again, it was like falling back into a familiar place of solace and comfort. That thread tightened around them and yanked them together until they had no choice but to ride it out. Until _he _had no choice but to give in to every silent demand of her body.

And _fuck_, she was so warm and then _hot_, and she'd been sitting on his couch looking so goddamn _good _in those tight little jeans and that top that hugged the gentle curves of her hips and _holy shit_, the sensation of her soft, pert breasts pressing against him, dragging up his ribs and across his chest, sent all the blood rushing straight between his legs. It sent every slightly doubt-filled thought flying out of his head and dissipating into the darkness of the apartment. Her clothes were so thin and she was pressed so tightly against him that he could feel every rise and dip of her petite form, he could feel every tensing and quivering muscle as she closed the distance between their faces.

Her hair tickled his neck and his cheeks as her soft lips pressed against his. His eyes fluttered closed and his breath stuttered as the taste of beer and _Beth _filled his mouth. Her scent was encompassing him and she was stealing the very breath from his throat, kissing him harder, sliding her hands up to grasp his shoulder and the back of his neck while she began to writhe atop him. The blood was racing through his veins, hot and thick, pooling in his center and bringing to life the burning need that made his cock twitch and jump in his pants. It was quickly growing hard and prodding into her inner thigh through layers of clothing.

She felt it and intentionally ground her pelvis down against it, providing him with a delicious friction that sent a shudder of anticipation trembling through his whole body. He swallowed back a low groan and kissed her harder, shoving his tongue between her lips and gripping her ass in both hands. She dragged her hips against him in sync with his hands urging her closer and he shuddered, his cock throbbing harder and a trickle of precome dampening the inside of his boxers.

The movie playing on the TV was long forgotten now, the sounds becoming background noise to their quiet grunts and groans, the gasped breaths that bounced off the walls around them. The blanket quickly fell away and ended up in a pile on the floor while they squirmed together on the couch, bodies bucking and grinding together in need of a closeness that was impossible to achieve with so many clothes on. Yet they couldn't seem to pull away from each other long enough to strip off the barriers between them.

_We shouldn't be doin' this. This ain't what friends do - why do we keep repeating this pattern when I just __**told **__you how much it fucking __**tortures **__me?_

But her hips were grounding into his so perfectly, and he could feel the heat between her legs, the need that resonated through her body and _ached _for him. Even through denim and cotton and heartbreak and resentment, he could _hear _her calling out to him. Begging for him. And who was he to say no? She was _relentless_.

But in all fairness, so was he.

He wasn't even _trying _to stop himself. He pulled her closer, dug his fingers in and cupped her ass harder, with more intent and demand. Her breath was hot in his mouth, and she bit down on his bottom lip without warning, eliciting a low growl from his throat. There was no hint of inhibition left within him, and he immediately pulled his hand back and slapped her ass in response. She jolted against him and shuddered, kissing him with deeper desperation and moaning softly into his mouth. Her hips bucked into his and he could feel her sharp hip bones digging into his abdomen, sending another rush of desire straight to his throbbing erection.

And he'd be _goddamned _if he was about to lie to himself right now, or try to deny the fact that he'd jerked himself off at least four times over the last two weeks to the very explicit memory of Beth squirming in his bed and gushing all over his dick. He'd replayed that night so many times in his head by now that it almost didn't feel _real _anymore. And even though he didn't want to, he'd _longed _for another night just like it. One more moment with her bare naked before him, hot and wet and moaning with need. One more moment that he could drag out for eternity and get lost in whenever he was stroking himself in the shower or lazily touching himself while trying to fall asleep.

Here it was, happening when he'd already given up hope that it might ever happen again.

And the flare-like burst in the pit of his stomach was building to the point of explosion, his dick growing harder and more engorged with every brief brush of her thighs. Even through the layers of clothing, he could feel the heat between her legs growing more intense, and she was bucking against him with more desire every time his tongue found a new spot inside her mouth. Their lips grappled and fought for dominance, breaths becoming pants and gasps that vocalized their matched passion, the unspoken obligation to prove _something _to one another. Though he was pretty sure that neither of them knew exactly what that _something _was.

His fingers drifted over to the tantalizing warmth between her legs, and he stretched his arm a little farther to reach down below her ass and slide his fingers between the heat that had pooled there, pressing the seam of her jeans teasingly against her moistening cunt. She gasped in sharply against his mouth and he bit down on her bottom lip to elicit another gasp, smiling in satisfaction with the reaction he'd gotten from her. She ground her hips down into his, begging for more friction and contact. He dragged his fingers between her legs, pressing upwards and relishing in the way she trembled against him.

He broke his mouth away from hers just long enough to growl against her lips, "Take those _fuckin' _jeans off."

She immediately leaned away and reached down to undo the button of her pants and slide them down her legs, struggling for a second as she jerked them off her feet and tossed them to the floor. And without any urging, she quickly pulled off her shirt and camisole, then unhooked her bra with one hand and tossed it aside as well. Before he could fully take in the glorious sight of her sitting atop him in nothing but a tiny pair of panties, she was reaching down and tugging at his sweatpants, slipping them down his thighs and off his legs before moving to urge him out of his T-shirt. He obliged and sat up long enough to pull it off, tossing his clothes into the pile they'd rapidly built on the floor.

Then she was on him again, bare breasts and peaked nipples pressing against his chest, hot tongue invading his mouth and sharp hip bones digging even sharper into his middle with no cotton barrier to protect him. He bucked up against her and revelled in the euphoric friction between his boxers-covered cock and her bare, supple thighs. The moist heat between her legs was radiating outward, teasing and taunting him from beneath cotton panties.

When she pressed herself against his bulging cock and slowly slid across the outline of his length, he nearly came completely undone right then and there. He bucked upward and his dick throbbed painfully, precome seeping out, wet against her thigh through the thin fabric of his boxers. She moaned into his mouth and he dug his fingers into the fleshy part of her ass, hips thrusting against her and begging for more friction. Every muscle in his body was wound tight and stretched taut, trembling beneath her petite frame.

She broke their swollen lips apart and began trailing wet kisses down his jaw and his exposed throat, sucking lightly at his pulsepoint and teasing the soft spot beneath his earlobe. She ground herself down into him again and elicited a deep groan from his parted lips when he felt her hot breath on his ear and her teeth nibbling at his neck. She seemed to swallow it up quickly before repeating the motion, and her teeth dug into his skin painfully, until he was sure she was leaving a mark. He couldn't have cared less, though. All he could think about was his achingly hard cock pressing between her legs, and how he could feel every lip and fold of her barely-covered pussy dragging across his length.

His dick twitched and prodded against her hot inner thigh. And then her lips were moving farther down his neck, lingering at his broad chest for a moment before continuing south, leaving a fluttery light trail of moist kisses and teasing flicks of her tongue.

_Oh _\- he knew where this was going. Even after all this time, she still had the same pattern, the same little ritual. And the sudden realization made his pulse rabbit nervously. It sent all the blood rushing even faster to his already-engorged cock.

_Fuck_, he'd missed having her perfect little mouth around his hard dick, but he wasn't sure he could _last _through that. He hadn't had nearly enough whiskey to keep himself from disappointing her.

But he didn't really have the chance to object. Or the willpower. He was frozen where he lay on the couch, watching with wide eyes and itching fingers as she pulled out of his grasp and slid down between his legs, hooking her small fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers and yanking them down until his cock was springing free, inches away from her face.

His hands felt oddly empty without her pert little ass filling his palms, and he reached down to wrap his fingers in her long hair while she placed her lips to the tender skin below his abdomen, just above the patch of coarse black hair. He quivered when she kissed him there, and his cock twitched against her exposed throat as she slowly and torturously trailed her lips downward, purposefully ignoring the aching _need _that was right next to her face and still leaking with precome.

Finally, _mercifully_, she wrapped a warm and dainty hand around his shaft, squeezing lightly and drawing a long, guttural groan from his throat. His eyes slammed shut and his fingers dug into her scalp as he resisted the urge to buck his hips up into her, to shove her head down onto his waiting cock. She gave it a long, slow stroke, swiping her thumb across the glistening tip and spreading his sticky precome around teasingly. He shuddered and his thighs trembled and he barely felt his teeth digging into his bottom lip. His heart was thumping against the inside of his chest so hard he was afraid it might burst out of his sternum entirely, and his back arched reactively to her touch.

He moaned through gritted teeth, a sound of torture and desperation. When his eyes fluttered open and he looked down, he found saucer-like pupils staring back up at him and soft pink lips hovering over the head of his cock. His breath hitched in his throat and he watched anxiously as she slowly, _slowly _closed the remaining distance and wrapped her lips around him.

And _holy shit_, it was even better than he remembered. Even better than he could've imagined during all the carnal fantasies that played out in his head whenever he was pleasuring himself.

She knew exactly what he liked, knew exactly how to tap directly into his most animalistic spot, how to make him moan like a goddamn cat in heat. All it took was some light humming from the back of her throat as she took his hard cock into her mouth, sliding her wet lips down his shaft inch by inch. And then the slow and torturous way she slipped him back out of her mouth, barely lifting her lips from the head and flicking her tongue out across the slit. A shudder wracked his body and washed through him like a riptide.

Then he could feel her hot breath on his cock, the gentle vibration of her voice as she whimpered out, "You're so _hard_, baby…"

He was almost certain he would _never _find another woman who could talk dirty like Beth could. She always knew exactly what to say and when to say it to make him melt into a puddle in her hands. And there was something about the sweet innocence in her voice that made it feel even dirtier, like she only talked that way for _him_.

A faint and foreign sound escaped his mouth, like a whine mixed with a groan, and when she wrapped her lips around his cock once more, he couldn't stop his hips from reflexively bucking into her this time. But she gripped the base of his cock while her other hand steadied on his thigh and slowed him down, methodically slipping the rest of his thick length into the wet warmth of her mouth, swirling her tongue around as her lips reached her hand. Then she was stroking him in time with the gentle sucking.

"_Shit_, babe… I'm not - I ain't gonna last long," he panted, trying to warn her that she was doing _too_ good of a job. His eyes squeezed shut as he fought to push back the rapidly building sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Her tongue swirled around his head again and his engorged cock throbbed in her mouth, then he felt her taking him in farther and teasing the back of her throat. She hummed softly and he dug his fingers into her scalp, trying not to tug too hard on her hair but unable to resist the urge to shove himself against the back of her throat with a jolted thrust. At the same time, every slight tug on her hair elicited another low groan from the back of her throat, and he couldn't stop himself from repeatedly drawing the sound out of her until it vibrated through his cock.

She gripped his shaft harder and sucked a little more intently, draining every ounce of resistance from his body.

"_F-fuck_, I'm _really _not - yer gonna make me come _quick_, girl," he growled.

In response, she slipped his cock from her mouth and breathed out against it, "That's okay - that's what I _want_."

Then her warm, wet mouth was consuming his entire length once more and he was shuddering and shivering, barely able to register the sensations before he felt her hand abandon his thigh and slip downwards. She grasped his balls gently, cupping them in her palm, and massaged them in rhythm with the movement of her tongue and her determined sucking on his pulsing cock.

His back went rigid and he froze for a second, melting into her hands and falling apart before her. He threw his head back and gripped handfuls of blonde hair to keep himself from floating off the couch. His hips bucked up and he shoved his cock farther into her mouth, down her throat. She barely gagged before sucking him harder and giving his balls a tantalizing squeeze.

"Jesus _Christ_, baby," he groaned, barely able to hear his own low and breathless voice over the pounding of his heart and the rushing blood in his ears.

And _her_. Her slight humming, the wet and sloppy sounds of her lips on his cock, the occasional gagging whenever his head prodded the back of her throat. The more he squirmed around her, the more she moaned around his cock. LIke she was getting off on his pleasure.

He wished he could reach down and swipe a finger through her wet cunt, just to feel how turned on she had gotten from having his hard dick filling her mouth. And yeah, part of him _really _wanted to fuck her right now, to feel her pussy gushing around him once again. But she was doing _way _too good of a job at sucking him off for him to want to stop her anytime soon.

The world could've been ending outside his window at this very moment and he wouldn't even bother to bat an eye at the sight. Not when he had such a magnificent view right before him, kneeling between his legs on the couch, humming and moaning around his cock until the sensation was reverberating through his very bones.

His limbs began to fill with static and prickling needles as a rush of incinerating heat swirled around below his stomach. And though she was still working her lips and tongue around his cock, sucking every inch of his engorged length as far into her mouth as possible, his entire body had gone stiff, tensed and taut with anticipation for the sensation that was inevitably about to wash over him. His fingers were frozen, wrapped up in long golden locks, and his hips halted mid-thrust. He silently handed control over to her, and she grabbed it up with vigor.

Before he could fully register the onslaught of new sensations, her hand was releasing its gentle grasp on his balls and slipping downward. With her wet mouth consuming his cock, tongue flicking and teasing at the bulged length and its protruding veins, she slid one finger down across the sensitive patch of skin below his balls. Then she fluidly slipped it inside him, pressing past the tensed circle of muscles until her fingertip was grazing that dangerously sweet and well-hidden spot within his depths.

He didn't even have a chance to wince, to attempt at pulling away or resisting. She'd caught him at the edge and given him a hard shove, in a way that only _she_ could.

All it took was one gentle poke, a teasing drift of pressure against _that_ spot - combined with the hot wetness around his cock, the soft back of her throat pressing against his near-bursting head, and the small hand wrapped around the base of his shaft… he was done for. He tightened around her finger, barely pushing back against it, and bucked up into her mouth. The pressure that had been steadily building below his stomach reached the point of explosion, and his brain immediately turned to mush, just like the rest of his muscles.

She sent him tumbling, flailing and screaming, over the edge. Head-first into an all-encompassing pool of ecstasy, where his body was no longer his and he had absolutely no control over anything that was happening to him. Everything became reflexive as the tsunami of his orgasm washed over him, sending bright and blazing bursts of fireworks flaring outward from his center. He wanted to warn her, but his mouth was incapable of forming anything more than desperate sounds of carnal pleasure.

He was coming, hard and intense, fingers barely grappling for purchase amongst her scalp as every last ounce of his being was drained out through his cock.

It spewed from the throbbing head of his hard dick and across her tongue, down the back of her throat, his entire length pulsing and rippling within her mouth. Hot and thick and seemingly never-ending, spurting out in long threads to mix with her saliva. He bit down on his bottom lip, stifling the long and loud moan that was erupting from his throat. His abdomen went rigid and his toes curled, and he thought his whole fucking _soul_ might be bursting from the head of his cock and down her throat. The waves of euphoria wouldn't stop, consuming him one after the other and drawing bone-shattering shudders from every inch of his body.

"Jesus - _fuck_!" The words poured from his mouth uncontrollably, slurred and dripping with heady lust.

He felt her slowly pulling her finger back out, leaving him with an odd emptiness that he kind of wanted to fill. Then he managed to lift his heavy eyelids and look down through his post-orgasm haze to watch her leisurely lingering on his cock, and it sent a whole new burst of desire through the pit of his stomach when he saw her wide, lust-blown pupils meeting his as she meaningfully swallowed around his still-pulsing dick.

He shuddered when he saw the muscles of her throat flexing, felt them constricting and loosening around his rapidly softening cock, knowing she was taking in every last drop of the hot and sticky load he'd released inside her mouth. He thought he might shatter apart and break into a million tiny pieces right before her when he saw the look of animalistic desire on her angelic face and heard the deep, guttural moan that echoed out from her throat, felt it tingling through every vein in his sensitive dick. He trembled and bit down on his bottom lip, barely able to loosen his grasp on her long hair while she let his swollen, wilting length fall from her mouth and parted lips.

Before he could collect himself and react accordingly, she was climbing him again, pawing her way up his bare torso with wide, endlessly black pupils and an insatiable thirst flickering across her face. His short gasp of a breath caught in his throat and he found himself trapped beneath her touch, frozen and unable to do anything more than slide his hands down through the thick tangles of her hair to rest on the hot back of her neck while she drew closer and closer. Her lips were still swollen and red from sucking vigorously on his cock, glistening with traces of his come.

It wasn't until she was an inch away from his face, with one hand tangled in the back of his shaggy hair while the other pressed hot against his sturdy chest, that she breathed out a tantalizing and torturous statement. Her mouth was so close to his that he could feel the stutter in her breath, and her tiny pert breasts were pressed so tightly against him that he could feel the slight inflation and deflation of her lungs in time with the words pouring from her lips.

"I love you. _Endlessly_."

_Fuck_, why did she have to be so naturally melodramatic? Why did her voice have to sound so heartfelt, so painfully authentic? Why did every second with her have to feel like some kind of tragic, bullshit Shakespeare play?

He wasn't even sure if she meant it anymore, or if she just liked the way it sounded. Maybe she liked the way it rolled off her tongue, or maybe she just liked the reaction it evoked from him. Did she say it because she wanted him to hear it, or because she wanted to hear it repeated back? Was she searching for validation in him? For some kind of selfish reassurance? Or was it nothing more than the falsely inflated affection brought on by too many drinks?

Her fingernails were digging into the skin of his chest and leaving tiny, sharp indentations in their wake, reaffirming his sense that she was searching for _something_. Without another second of hesitation, he closed the miniscule distance between their mouths and kissed her hungrily. _Desperately_. He could taste himself in her saliva and it sent another aftershock trembling through his muscles. His lips grasped at hers with need, nearly identical to the way his hands were grasping at her hair and the back of her neck. She returned his desperation tenfold, pouring out an intense and heartfelt need so deeply ingrained within her being that he nearly doubled over at the sensation.

_Fuck_, he'd never missed her - or anyone - so much in his _life_. He'd never craved someone so intensely and so intimately that missing them became a loss that was similar to misplacing a vital organ.

But most of all, he'd never felt that loss reciprocated before. Not with anyone else. Not with anyone but _her_.

She was the only one who could see him - _really_ see him. And she still wanted him. Needed him. _Missed_ him. She was the only person, he was pretty damn sure, that was left on this planet who was capable of feeling that sort of affection toward him. She was the only human being who could see anything _worth_ missing within him.

Was this what she'd meant when she'd voiced the same sentiment two weeks ago? He tried not to ask himself, tried to avoid the obstacle altogether. But it seemed impossible. Sure, he saw her as a million and one things that every sane straight man would want, but she didn't see herself that way. And it was no different for him, apparently. When he pictured someone accepting him, welcoming him in, seeing his scars and looking past them… he could only picture _her_. Everyone else was terrified. Everyone else had caught a glimpse of the wreckage and ran in the opposite direction. Except _her_.

She saw it all and wanted more. She stared at his grisly scars and smiled. She didn't run. Instead, she turned around and showed him the gruesome scars of her own. She reminded him that he wasn't so alone after all. That he never was, and would never have to be again. Not if he didn't _want_ to be.

And then she laid him down and _proved_ it to him. Over and over and over again. And this time was no exception. She'd taken him fully in her mouth, swallowed every last drop of him, and looked back up, expecting more. Asking what else she could do to make him happy.

Or was he misinterpreting that look in her eyes? Was she just trying to drown her grief within him? Was she using him just like she used alcohol and drugs and razorblades? Was he actually nothing more than the reliable old tool she knew she could count on to get the job done?

He couldn't really blame her if that was the case. Maybe she saw him as hopeless. The One That Got Away, but only because he _pushed_ her away. Maybe, outside of that bed and this couch, the only thing she saw when she looked at him was the shabby, run-down remains of a man she'd once thought was perfect. A man she imagined marrying one day - until she realized he would never _really_ change. Not for her. Not for anyone.

She kissed him a little harder and nibbled lightly on his bottom lip, then pulled away to gaze into his eyes. Her stare was unfocused, eyelids drooping and pupils still wide in the low light of the apartment.

And he suddenly realized that he didn't _care_. He didn't know what her exact intentions were, didn't know what she wanted from him or what she was getting from him, didn't even know if she would _ever_ give him another chance… and he didn't. _Fucking._ _Care_.

If she wanted him to stab himself over and over just so she could watch him bleed, then he'd die in a pool of his own blood with a knife grasped in his hands. If she was getting a kick out of dragging this out, dragging _him_ out, then so be it. Because honestly, he was kind of getting a kick out of it, too. For once, he didn't feel numb. When she was around, he no longer felt like he was walking through life half-asleep. And sure, it was like a nail embedded into the bottom of his foot, constantly aching and sending sudden jolts of pain up his whole body whenever he stepped down on it. But _shit_, did that pain wake him up and make him feel alive.

_She_ made him feel alive. Without her… what was the point of _anything_? Where the fuck was his life supposed to go if she wasn't part of it? She was the goal, the endgame, the entire reason for moving forward at all.

"I love you, too," he whispered. "Endlessly, forever, always - whatever. I jus' _love_ you. Can't _stop_ lovin' you."

She smiled and he saw the blue in her eyes barely brighten.

And that was the moment Daryl stopped asking if he was where he was _supposed_ to be. Because it suddenly clicked in his head, all at once: wherever Beth was... that was _exactly_ where he was supposed to be.

No matter how much it might hurt.

**to be continued...**


	7. scar tissue I

**A/N: **"Scar Tissue" by Red Hot Chili Peppers.

* * *

**scar tissue I**

The first time Beth and Daryl met was in a river on a hot, humid, and scorchingly sunny day in June. Merle was still free and going through one of his short bouts of sobriety, working some construction job with Daryl in the city during the week. Their Pa had finally keeled over and died the year before, leaving them untangled from the remaining burdens that came attached to the Dixon name.

It was the last summer that Maggie would return to the farm from college, and though she was single and still bitter about her last ex at the time, she was unaware that just a few short months later, she would meet a particularly shy pizza delivery boy in Atlanta who would steal her heart - and her last name. It was also the last summer that Merle would spend outside of incarceration, despite his feeble attempts to better himself.

After a long week of work and a couple days of heavy summer rain, Daryl and his older brother had decided to spend their weekend getting drunk and floating down the river on a pair of inner tubes, clad in cut-off jean shorts, old T-shirts, and beat-up tennis shoes. They both had intense farmer's tans, but as they sipped beers and floated leisurely down the river, sunscreen wasn't even one of the problems on their minds. There _were_ no problems on their minds - they were carefree. Probably not for long, but at least for now.

When he first spotted her, Beth was no more than a blonde-haired blur off in the distance. For a second, he thought she might be a kid because she was so short, but then he spotted the curves and the bikini and the graceful gait and he knew she was _definitely _no kid. She was standing on the bank in ankle-deep water, struggling to help her sister and cousin to untangle their inner tubes from the rocks they'd gotten wrapped up in.

Just two young girls with their male cousin out for a day of tubing on the river and forgetting their worries.

And then Daryl had to come along and change _everything _in Beth's life.

* * *

Admittedly, neither of them could remember all the details from their first day together. Or even that first summer. It had all become a blur of alcohol, river water, cigarettes, bonfires, and frightening new experiences. That first day, though… it was what Beth had always liked to refer to as "accidental magic." And he couldn't help but agree. There was simply no other fitting definition for it.

Except maybe _fate_.

There were a lot of things that stuck out in his mind, though. Things that he felt could never be replicated, things that had made him feel emotions he'd never been sure he was even capable of. At first, he didn't even really _like _Beth. She was young and naive, talkative and nosey and kind of _clingy_. He was indifferent towards her, at best. And her sister was worse - loud and bossy and a little too cocky for her own good.

He could tell that the Greene girls leaned toward the _spoiled _side of life. They lived on a big farm, had a do-gooder daddy that took care of them, and they'd probably never end up stuck in dead-end Senoia like the Dixon boys. They'd probably never experienced the kinds of hardships Daryl and Merle had, nor would they ever have to. They weren't the kind of people that the Dixons got involved with, let alone befriended, and vise versa.

Then, after several hours of floating side-by-side and sharing jokes and exchanging coy smiles with little, blonde Beth, Daryl felt something _strange _coming to life in his stomach.

Maybe it was the combination of beer, sun, and nature, but he started opening up. He started talking back, joking with her, smiling and laughing. And as much as he tried to ignore it, he was more than aware of the way his heart would flutter wildly whenever their hands brushed or she reached out to grab his inner tube and pull him back to her. They'd wound up hooking the little ropes on their tubes together, floating along behind Maggie and Arnold's tied-together tubes, with Merle floating after them in the back.

And the entire time, Daryl's internal warning system didn't go off. Not even once.

Sometimes, he still cursed himself for allowing Beth to get close. For allowing whatever happened on that river to culminate into a monster of its own. How had he not _known_? How had he not _felt _it when she was near? That gravitational pull, that eternal burning that simply _knowing _her had set ablaze and refused to extinguish. It was something so intense and ominous that he _surely_ should've felt the very tips of its long tendrils grazing him when his eyes first set on her. Maybe he had and he'd just ignored it. Maybe it had been something too strange and incomprehensible to even acknowledge.

There was a single moment from that day that stuck out more prominently than any other: when she'd been applying a fresh layer of sunscreen and squeezed the bottle way too hard, spurting sunscreen all over herself - far more than she needed. He'd laughed at her and watched with amusement when she turned and gave him a look that said, _really…? _And then she'd grinned mischievously and scooped up a palmful of sunscreen before reaching out and splatting it across his bare legs.

And while she laughed loudly and leaned halfway over the edge of her inner tube to playfully spread the sunscreen across his hairy, already-tanned lower legs, that odd fluttering overwhelmed the inside of his chest and filled the pit of his stomach. He laughed with her and shook his head, and afterwards, he admonished himself for being so stupid as to wonder - if even for the briefest second - whether she was _flirting _with him.

_Of course she wasn't, _he'd told himself. _She's just friendly, she's just like that._

_Jesus… _he'd _always _been a goddamn fool.

* * *

After that, it was more of the same. Bits and pieces of memories, details that stuck out in his mind for no particular reason. And _Beth_. So _much_ Beth.

All tanned skin and long legs in cut-off jean shorts, bikinis, and sundresses. Glowing blonde hair that nearly blinded him in the sunlight, and even brighter blue eyes. A voice coated in sugar and honey with a soft Southern lilt, laughter that filled his head and reverberated through his chest and echoed off all the trees. Long, pinkish scars that seemed to decorate her body like some form of morbid artwork, bared openly and without shame. But most of all: those big, beautiful eyes. She nearly knocked him off his feet every time she flashed a smile his way and fluttered those long, thick eyelashes. His stomach flip-flopped more in a _month_ than it had in the last forty _years_.

There was a handful of more days spent on the river, floating on inner tubes, making a habit of tying their tubes together while Maggie, Arnold, and Merle paired off separately. The first time Daryl heard Beth sing was when she was half-full of warm beer and bathed in afternoon sunlight, belting out the National Anthem at the top of her lungs. Halfway through, he and Merle joined in with their unabashedly hoarse and off-key voices, and by their second recitation, Maggie and Arnold were in on the chorus as well. They floated down the slow-moving river in the summer sun, sipping beer and singing one well-known song after the next. And whenever they passed another group of inner tubers, Beth was always the first to gleefully wave and invite them to sing along. And most of the time, they did.

It was a _damn_ good summer. Probably the best Daryl had ever had.

Along with their countless hours floating down the river, he fondly remembered weekend nights spent at the bar. Of course, this was way before Beth was _legally _able to drink, and even before she'd acquired a fake ID. But in a small town like Senoia, that wasn't stopping her.

There were only two bars in all of Senoia, and one of them was out near the edge of town - a little more run-down, a _lot _more lax on the rules and regulations. One of Maggie's friends from high school was in charge every weekend night, and that friend didn't care about carding people. The place was usually fairly quiet, no more than ten or fifteen patrons at a time. Mostly older folk, overworked farmers and whatnot, people who minded their own business and didn't care that the Greene girls were throwing back beers behind their daddy's back on the weekends. Daryl had never been particularly fond of the place, but he never turned down an invitation when he knew Beth would be there. Sure, he'd _prefer _to go into Atlanta and find a nice bar to drink at, but after seeing how much fun she was to be around, he felt that he'd only end up bored and lonely.

He was frightened at how quickly he had grown fond of her. How rapidly she'd invaded his head and stayed there. He was a little annoyed at how often he found himself thinking about her, wondering what she was doing, wishing he could talk to her. But then he'd see her and she would seem just as anxious to talk to him again, to tell him about her day and ask about his, to hang out with him, to simply be _around _him. And it felt… really fucking _nice_. Just to know that someone saw him as a friend. To know that _she _saw him as someone she _wanted _to know.

He couldn't remember the exact moment he fell in love with her. Just like he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when he knew he was too far gone to be saved; when he'd given in and let her consume him without resistance. It was more like a culmination of several different moments. A combination of days and nights, sunshine and moonlight, beer and whiskey and cigarettes, bonfires and skylines, the strum of a guitar and a soft, melodic voice singing an old country song that spurred unfounded bursts of emotions within him. Along with a small peppering of intriguing text messages and inside jokes and the deep bond that inevitably follows an outpouring of one's soul.

They shared a lot more than a summer together. They wound up sharing painful memories, deep-seated trauma, anxiety, and fear. They bonded over the scars that didn't show on their skin - and the ones that did.

He already liked nearly everything about her. She was smart and funny and quick-witted and sassy to no end. She was brave, strong, resilient to the nth degree. She didn't take anyone's shit, nor did she allow _anyone_ to intimidate her. She was fully aware of how beautiful she was, yet oblivious at the same time. She was an old soul in a young body, almost too compassionate and trusting for her own good. She was loyal to a fault.

But most of all, she was _damaged_... Like him.

* * *

When he finally mustered up the courage and swallowed enough beer, he managed to ask her where her scars had come from. It was during one of their bonfire nights, after a long day of floating on the river.

And she'd blinked, smiled, and shrugged, and then she'd nonchalantly explained that they were the remnants of a horrendous car accident that took the lives of her mother and half-brother. She didn't even flinch when she told him that she'd been twelve years old, that she hadn't been expected to ever walk again, and that she died _twice _on her way to the hospital before miraculously surviving. She didn't even sound bitter when she mentioned how her daddy and sister had escaped with no more than a handful of bruises and a nasty case of whiplash.

In fact, she _joked _about it. She told him that she wished she could remember it more because everyone told her that she'd crawled from the wreckage and waved down help from the side of the road, all while suffering from a broken pelvis, a shattered fibula and tibia, and a fractured spine. And she laughed, cracking a macabre joke about how she wished she could've been able to give a first-hand account to all the news stations that had bombarded her afterwards.

He'd laughed it off with her, but inside, something stung sharp. It felt _wrong_.

Even before he _really _knew her, he felt that he _knew _her. He recognized the pain and guilt and suffering that lay nestled in those cornflower blues - everything that she was trying so hard to keep pushed down. Surely, she had to be _exhausted_ by now. He knew, from personal experience, how tiring it was to keep all that shit locked up. How utterly draining it was to continuously blame yourself and carry a heavy load of guilt from year to year. And this bubbly little blonde might have a pretty face to put on everyday, but sooner or later, that face would become too heavy for her to lift. And she would crumble beneath the weight.

The evidence was already there. A thick scar on her wrist, something he didn't ask about until much later. Something that seemed to haunt her family just as much as it haunted her. An attempt at ending her own pain and guilt when she was fifteen, only to result in more pain and guilt spreading outwards like a plague on everyone she cared about most, she explained one night. She never liked going much into the details, brushing it off as "a bout of selfish immaturity and weakness." Laughing it away with another misplaced joke about how, maybe if she'd been physically able to join sports in high school like she'd always wanted to, she wouldn't have had so much time to sit around and wallow in her own pity.

He thought that sounded more like a guilt-ridden explanation that she'd convinced herself of rather than an _actual_ reason. But he didn't pry. And the night that he finally asked about it, he noticed that she took a few more shots than usual and chugged her beer just a little faster. He tried not to think about the flicker of darkness he'd seen cross her face, all too familiar and foreboding.

When _other _people asked about her scars, it was always a different story. All it took was witnessing one encounter for him to be convinced that she was like no one he'd ever met before - in the _best _way possible. And that, maybe, he could learn a thing or two from her.

There were numerous times when she'd wear a blouse that dipped low in the back and exposed her spine, the long and grisly scar that lay there as a reminder of her forever-damaged vertebrae. Or she'd wear shorts or a skirt or a dress, and the equally-long, equally-grisly scar that ran down the length of her calf would be exposed for the world to see. And once in a while, a curious drunkard would wander over and try to spark up a conversation based solely on the tragedy that framed this beautiful little blonde girl.

And she always brushed it off. In his eyes, she was coated in impenetrable armor, standing tall and rigid atop a pile of bones and ashes, prepared to defend herself and the ones she loved with the only defense she knew best: humor. And light-heartedness.

She was full of positivity and optimism, constantly radiating its confident heat wherever she went. All he could do was stand back and watch in awe.

"Damn - what happened ta yer back?"

"Oh, that was a terrible whaling accident… But _I got the fucker_."

"Shit, girl, what's that brutal scar on yer back?"

"You ever played Russian Roulette with a machete?"

"So what's the story on that scar you got?"

"Bear attack. Why? You tryin' ta go _hunting _with me?"

In the same way that she made him confront his own pent-up pain and aggression, she also made him _laugh_. At the most ridiculous things, at the most macabre jokes. Somehow, she showed him a silver lining to the dark cloud that had followed him since childhood. Every second with her felt a little easier than the last. Every day felt like a slightly lighter load than the day before.

He caught himself chuckling quietly at stupid pictures and jokes that she would text him during the day, while he was at work or when he woke up in the morning or randomly, late in the evening. It didn't take long for his heart to begin leaping with excitement every time he saw her name pop up on his phone screen. And then they were flowing into long conversations on the phone at night, even longer conversations in person, more words per text message than he'd _ever _bothered with before.

She was the only one he genuinely enjoyed texting, or really talking to at all. She was definitely the only person he'd ever spent more than half an hour talking to on the phone. She didn't even seem annoyed or bothered when he began venting about Merle and life in general. In fact, she _listened_.

She absorbed everything he said and responded with words of reassurance. And when she didn't have any reassuring words, she simply gave him understanding. Which was more than enough, he figured out. He'd never realized how much it meant to have someone he could honestly talk to - about _everything_.

And when she talked, he did the same. He listened, he absorbed it, and even when he didn't want to, he empathized. He recognized something in her and reached out for it. Whether he'd been reaching subconsciously or not, he still wasn't sure. But it seemed inevitable either way. Their broken pieces were magnetizing towards each other, clinging together and refusing to separate.

And honestly, he had no desire to pull them apart.

* * *

For the first couple of months, it was all passive flirting, coy smiles, and inside jokes. Lots of lingering touches, long hugs, and sitting close together. To the point that Maggie had begun side-eyeing them, shooting him random glares from across the bar or from the other side of the bonfire, watching with narrowed eyes from her inner tube. Beth didn't seem to care about her sister's opinion - he didn't realize until much later that he'd been witnessing the last of the thin strings that connected Maggie and Beth slowly snapping and separating for good.

Not that it mattered. It had never been Beth's love life or her choices that pushed Maggie away - no matter how badly the youngest Greene wanted to blame herself. And as far as he was concerned, Beth was an adult, and more often than not, he found himself thinking that she acted far more mature than Maggie ever had.

Nonetheless, he'd denied any sort of attraction between him and Beth. She _was_ young. _Much_ younger than him. And even though he'd felt something indescribable upon meeting her, something that had immediately gripped onto him tightly and refused to let go, something that kind of felt like his _soul_ was recognizing something familiar in hers… he wasn't about to admit it to himself.

Sure, she was beautiful, and yeah, he'd probably drag his dick through a mile of broken glass just for one night in bed with her. But that didn't mean shit. She was too _good_ for him. And he was too _broken_ for her. Neither of them were in the position to be falling for someone, getting all wrapped up in emotions and desires. And a girl like her _would_ get wrapped up. He already knew.

There was a reason he hadn't had an actual girlfriend since high school: because he didn't _want_ one. Women were more trouble than they were worth. He'd learned that lesson time and time again, and had vowed years and years ago to stop wasting his efforts on something as pointless as romance. Something that had only ever resulted in heartbreak and general disappointment.

But there was also a reason that he'd never been the affectionate type. He'd never been one for hugging or cuddling or holding hands or any of the nonsense that brought people too far into his personal space, whether platonic or otherwise. That kind of shit made you _vulnerable_ with another person, and he didn't _do_ vulnerable.

Yet with Beth, it was inevitable. Unavoidable.

She reached out and took his hand, interlacing their fingers like it was normal and no big deal. She hugged him eagerly, didn't bother to hold back or act shy. She constantly reached out to touch his arm or grab his wrist, or to lean on him or use him as her own personal pillow. She was always urging him closer, always clinging to his side and gravitating toward him. She made it feel _comfortable_.

With her, it seemed _natural_.

He still wasn't even sure if she was flirting with him or not. At first, he'd been positive that she was just _like_ _that_ \- touchy-feely and affectionate, well-acquainted with constant physical communication and reassurance in all her relationships. But then he made a point to pay close attention to how she acted with other people, friends and family and otherwise, and no matter how badly he didn't _want_ to admit it, he _had_ to admit that she _definitely_ treated him a little differently than everyone else. And then he was flirting back, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes because it felt good to hear her giggle or see her blush while she playfully slapped his arm. Never with any intention of taking it anywhere, though.

They were _friends_. Maybe this was just what it was like to have a _good_ friend - a good _female_ friend. How was he supposed to know any different? He'd never cared about a woman the way he cared about Beth. No woman had ever _looked_ at him the way she had, let alone given him the time of day. Or the benefit of the doubt. No woman had ever treated him like he _mattered_. He'd simply never been given a reason to believe that _anyone_ genuinely cared about him except Merle.

And suddenly, if they were sitting on the couch together or at the bar, he didn't feel quite _right_ until he had her physical warmth at his side. It became a reflex to reach out for her hand when they were walking somewhere together. To wrap his arms around her whenever he first saw her after being apart or while they said goodbye. To scoot just a little closer whenever she sat down beside him. Even to offer her a piggyback ride every now and then - just because it made her laugh (and a little bit because it gave him an excuse to feel her body pressed _really_ close against his).

He didn't know what it meant. Couldn't decide if it was flirting or friendship. Couldn't quite explain it to himself, let alone figure it out. It was just… _Beth_.

And then she had her 19th birthday at the end of August, during the most humid part of the slowly ending summer. Of course, she planned a big party to celebrate, which she'd been excitedly talking about for several weeks, planning it around the time that her daddy would be out of town visiting family. And of course, Daryl showed up early to help her set up and pre-game with her.

What he hadn't expected, and what neither of them had planned for, was ending up drunkenly making out in the downstairs bathroom of her big white farmhouse. Too many "birthday shots" and poorly played games of beer pong had left Beth stumbling and giggly, somehow even more touchy-feely with him than she usually was. Admittedly, he'd had quite a few shots himself, and he'd been downing one beer after another for several hours.

But he could still remember every single detail of being in that tiny bathroom with her, of _kissing_ her for the first time. Not even the alcohol could change that. He couldn't forget it if he tried.

The way she smelled like lilacs and freshly-mown grass, how she tasted like beer with the slightest hint of cigarettes and something fruity. The way she pressed her small frame tightly against him, and how he'd immediately shut his eyes the second he realized she was _finally_ closing that distance between their faces, _finally_ kissing him.

He vividly remembered the spark in his chest as soon as their mouths were connected - like the final piece of a huge jigsaw puzzle had just been placed. Like the odd, unspoken tension constantly hanging between them had finally dissipated and drifted away entirely. There was an overwhelming flood of something that he could only describe as _relief_ washing through him when she slipped her tongue past his lips and began exploring his mouth, when she wrapped her arms a little tighter around him and leaned up on tiptoes to get as close as possible.

And it wasn't just the relief from finally knowing that she _had_ been flirting with him the whole time. No, it was something more, something he couldn't understand at the time.

He'd never cared for kissing, let alone making out. It had always been a brief thing with him, like a technicality that some women required before they would allow him to bend them over a public toilet and fuck their brains out. But with Beth, it felt more like the final step of a long journey, and the first step of an even longer adventure that had only just begun. Something deep inside him just _knew_.

In the same way, something else inside him also knew that she was drunk. _Very_ drunk. And running on practically non-existent inhibitions. Even in his own inebriated state, he didn't allow his hands to drift below her lower back, no matter how _badly_ they wanted to. And he gently pushed her hand away when she made a grab at the button of his jeans, kissing her again and quietly mumbling about how they needed to get back out to rejoin the party before people started getting worried.

She whined at first, but then they kissed for a few more minutes and he eventually managed to guide her out of the bathroom and back to her friends. They spent the rest of the night practically glued together, though they didn't do anything more than hug and cuddle and hold hands.

He was glad he'd resisted temptation that night because, as it turned out, she didn't remember the last three or four _hours_ of the party. When they woke up in the morning and she saw him sleeping on her bedroom floor while she slept in the bed, she asked him how she'd gotten there and thanked him for staying with her. And when he finally built up the courage to ask if she remembered "the downstairs bathroom," she responded with a blank, completely clueless expression.

Even though she didn't remember their first kiss/makeout session, something _changed_ between them that night. They crossed a line that they could never cross back over again, and they'd landed in territory that they could never come back from.

Or maybe _he_ had changed in that bathroom, Daryl wondered after a while.

Maybe she'd finally dug her tiny fingers into the well-hidden fault lines of his thick protective armor and forcibly pried them open. Maybe she'd finally snuck inside those cracks, slithered her way between the jagged edges and taken up occupancy within the depths of his chest. Maybe she wanted to fill those spaces with her flickering light and intense warmth.

Or maybe she just wanted to start a fire in his lungs and step away to watch him suffocate in the ashes.

Whatever it was, he had no control over it. And no willpower to walk away. She'd already consumed him entirely. There was no going back to how things had been before. Their relationship had hurdled the fence of friendship and taken a lightning sprint into the darkness of the unknown that lay ahead.

He was submerged in the vast sea of whatever the hell it was that he felt for her - that she _made_ _him_ feel - and he was quickly sinking deeper and deeper, farther and farther away from the surface and everything he thought he'd known before her.

And he wasn't even _trying_ to come up for air.

**to be continued...**

* * *

**A/N: **I went ahead and finished the first flashback into the backstory of Beth and Daryl's relationship and it got a little long so I broke it into two parts. Next chapter will be the second half to this, and then we will resume where we left off last chapter. And there will be more flashback chapters scattered throughout later on, so you'll eventually get the full story of their 4-year relationship and how they got to the point where they are now.


	8. scar tissue II

**scar tissue II**

They didn't kiss again for three long weeks.

He _wanted_ to, more than anything. But it always took a few drinks before he could build up the courage to even _consider_ actually doing it. And then, whenever he'd find that perfect level of inebriation and begin to contemplate acting on his desire, she would lean into him and bat those eyelashes and flash that smile and suddenly, he would feel completely sober. And completely _terrified_. All of his gathered courage would immediately flee his body and he would find himself frozen before her, unable to close the distance between them, unable to fight through the tight ball of anxiety that would form in the pit of his stomach.

She made him feel a fear that he was unfamiliar with. He was used to fear, but not like _this_. He didn't know how to overcome it, how to push it off or confront it. All he knew was that something had changed between them, and he wanted it to _keep_ changing - but not if it meant losing whatever it was they'd been sharing all summer.

Sometimes, he had no trouble reading her. They'd gotten to a point where they were occasionally finishing each other's sentences, where he could tell when she was uncomfortable or upset or holding something back even if she tried to hide it. But with this, he couldn't tell. He couldn't read her. He had no idea if she was just drunk when they made out and was too ashamed and _nice_ to tell him that she regretted it and that it meant nothing… or if she was scared, too.

They didn't even talk about it. He wasn't sure if talking about it was unnecessary, or if they were both just too _cowardly_ to sit down and confront the truth. But he wasn't going to be the one to try and fix something that wasn't broken.

He'd already decided that, wherever they were going, he would take her hand and let her lead them there. Even if it wound up being a dead end.

Then everything fell together at once. Definitely not in the way he'd expected or hoped, but he'd long past accepted that that was how life worked most of the time.

A week after her birthday party, Beth's cousin, Arnold - who'd spent a large chunk of the summer hanging out with them alongside Maggie and Merle - came home to find his daddy lying dead on the kitchen floor. A massive heart attack swooped in and stole Hershel Greene's last living brother, sending him into a rapid downward spiral. He turned back to the bottle. Just like he did after Maggie's mom died and before Beth came along. Just like he'd done not so many years ago, when he'd lost his wife and only son in the same car accident that nearly killed his youngest daughter.

Daryl couldn't say he didn't understand. He'd dealt with alcoholics all his life, he knew the pattern and the struggle and the general disappointment that seemed inevitable. But that pattern had mostly played itself out before Beth had even been conscious. And then she'd only gotten a bitter _taste_ of that experience for a couple years of her life, as Maggie had been the one to take responsibility and keep the family from falling apart while dragging their father out of a deep, dark depression.

This time, it was different. Beth didn't know how to console her daddy, how to drag him away from his precious bottle or break his destructive pattern. She didn't know how to fix things or even where to _start_ to try and make things better. And Maggie decided that this was the last straw. She didn't leave college to come home and try to resume her role as the Family Healer. In fact, she stopped visiting altogether, and the phone calls became screaming matches drenched in tears, growing fewer and farther between until they began going to voicemail and, eventually, remaining unanswered.

She didn't have the "emotional capacity" to deal with all of that. She was seeing someone she really liked, and she was trying to focus on her degree and her job. She simply didn't have the time, or the energy, to fix the same problem for the hundredth time. Besides, Beth was an _adult_ now, and she'd _chosen_ not to attend college for her first year out of high school, so what did she have better to do anyway? According to Maggie, this was a good "learning experience" for the youngest Greene, and if nothing else, a sign that it was time for her to "separate and live her own life."

When all was said and done, the only thing Daryl had taken from it was that Maggie was truly _selfish_, and her notion of "family" was fifty shades of fucked up.

He felt a sickness to his stomach at the realization that he could _recognize_ the pain Beth was experiencing: it was all too similar to the pain he'd felt decades ago, when Merle had enlisted in the military and disappeared, leaving Daryl to deal with their father all alone. It nearly _broke_ him. And he'd be damned if he would sit back and watch Beth be broken like that. Whether she was an "adult who could handle it" or not - _no one_ should have to carry that load all alone, he decided. Especially not a pure soul like her.

But he didn't know what to say, had absolutely no idea what to do. How could he help her? How could he try to make it better, how could he _fix_ it for her? He didn't even know where to start, what he could possibly contribute that would be helpful in _any_ way. He'd never been very good with words, and he'd always been terrible at comforting people and giving reassuring advice. And he was pretty sure she wouldn't feel any better from hearing that he thought Maggie was a _fucking_ _bitch_.

All he wanted was to pull Beth out from beneath the debris of her slowly crumbling life and tuck her under his arm until the storm had passed. He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted to protect her from all the sharp edges of the world. Even if most of those sharp edges lay around her home and her family, in the invisible demons that were constantly circling her like a swarm of vultures. She was too _good_ for all of that. They were going to drain the goodness right out of her, they were going to _break_ her before she even had the chance to spread her wings.

In all honesty, he just wanted to whisk her off her feet and take her far away. Someplace nice - peaceful and quiet. Somewhere that would make her feel so happy amidst the chaos that she'd want to _sing_, loud and unabashed.

So that's what he did. Instead of sitting and watching her cry, listening to her yell and vent and downright sob; instead of holding her and rubbing her back and letting her tears soak his shirt; instead of downing beer after beer with her, continuously searching for the right words to say like they'd been doing nearly every night for the last two weeks… he took her away. Just for a night.

But that night turned into something more than he'd _ever_ expected.

* * *

He could still remember nearly _every_ detail, no matter how much time passed.

It was a Sunday night in late September and the weather was still nice as autumn began peeking its head around the corner and the summer heat and humidity gradually faded. Beth had been huffing and puffing over Maggie's cold shoulder and Hershel's lack of presence - the old man was spending _every_ _night_ in the bar at the edge of town, stumbling home around sunrise and sleeping until dusk. She'd tried everything she could think of - everything she was _capable_ of - to snap him out of it, but nothing worked.

So she'd resorted to pacing around her bedroom while Daryl sat on the edge of her bed, and she ranted and raved as he nodded and grunted and made all the appropriate sounds of disapproval and agreement. Her window was open and the warm evening breeze was drifting in, ghosting across his skin. He was still racking his brain for a solution, for comforting words that he could say, for any sort of real help he could provide for her. He felt so powerless, so absolutely _useless_ as he watched her crack and struggle not to break apart before him. It was only a matter of hours before she'd be lying across his lap again, sobbing quietly and asking for more beer.

And then it hit him, very suddenly and all at once: he decided that he had to do _something_.

He was watching her pull a can of beer from the case he'd brought up to her room, his gaze focused on her fingers as they worked to flip the tab open. He saw the way her fingernails were chewed down to the quick, how the edges of her thumbnail were rusty red with dried blood and tiny scabs. And before her lips could even touch the rim of the can, he was standing up and telling her to grab her jacket and guitar while he grabbed the beer. He didn't miss the small smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth as she set her can down and silently moved to retrieve her things. And a few minutes later, they were sitting in his dirty old pickup truck and speeding down the empty gravel roads, leaving the farm in their rearview mirrors and large clouds of dust in their wake.

She was quiet during the drive. She didn't ask where they were going, didn't voice any dark thoughts about her family, didn't speak at all. He cranked the radio up and tuned it to her favorite station in hopes that she might start singing, or at the very _least_, humming along. But she just stared out the window and watched the open fields and endless trees whizzing by, blue eyes wide and clouded with countless worries and unspoken fears. They both smoked cigarettes out the open windows and let the evening breeze whip through their hair. He kept glancing over at her, watching her, willing her to speak or smile or even cry. But all she did was continue gazing outward thoughtfully, occasionally tracing the pad of her thumb across the scar on her wrist like a nervous habit.

By the time he was making the final turn down the dark and quiet road that led to their destination, he was a tight ball of tension and clenched muscles. At first, the idea that popped into his head had filled him with excitement, and he'd driven a little faster than normal just because he was so antsy to get there and see her reaction. But he was doubting his choice more and more with every mile, wondering if it was even a good idea at all or if she would think it was a waste of time and demand that he take her home. Maybe she'd just thought they were going for a drive. Maybe he really had no _fucking_ idea how to make her feel better, how to show her that he cared and wanted to help - _somehow_.

But the clear night sky wouldn't allow him to turn back. The stars were growing brighter above them, the crescent moon rising higher and higher, silently insisting that they lay beneath it together and try to remember how small they actually were amongst the vastness of the universe. Insisting that he _show_ her.

She remained silent as he took them off the road, slowing down and driving through the tall grass of a large field, heading toward darkness. She was looking around curiously, trying to figure out where he was taking her. Then he approached the edge of the darkness and slowed, finally coming to a stop at the top of a steep, downward sloping hill. He put the truck into Park and shut off the engine, and as soon as he turned and saw the look on her face, he knew he'd had the right idea.

He _knew_ she'd like this place.

The last of the lights in the truck turned off and the darkness enveloped them completely. There were acres and acres of green fields rolling out before them, and in the distance, the Atlanta skyline shone bright against the darkened night sky. Every building was lit up, glowing even brighter than the stars above. They had a perfect view of the bustling city, far enough away to enjoy the peace and quiet of nature, the buzzing cicadas and singing crickets, the hooting owls and howling coyotes.

Daryl came out to this spot every now and then, but it was always alone. It was his quiet place - the place he could go to get away from his asshole dad and Merle and everything else, where he could drink and smoke in peace and listen to his radio while he stared at the fireflies and the stars and the city skyline. It was one of the only places where he could go and _think_. Or _not_ think.

As he watched Beth leaning forward with a smile slowly forming on her face, his heart leapt. And when her blue eyes widened and lit up and she turned to him with an expression of genuine surprise and _joy_, his pulse jumped and he couldn't help but smile back.

Her voice was full of astonishment as she quietly breathed out, "Daryl, this is _beautiful_."

And he had to agree. Though everything else had disappeared for a moment and all he could see was _her_.

They got out of the truck and sat atop the warm hood for a little while, sipping beers and gazing at the skyline, watching the stars multiply above while the evening breeze ruffled their hair. She mumbled a little here and there, after-thoughts and bitter statements that he knew felt better rolling off her tongue than being trapped inside her head. He nodded and grunted and agreed, flashed her a reassuring smirk every few minutes, attempted to crack a light joke or two. Her shoulders gradually relaxed and he could practically _see_ the tension rolling off of her in waves, seeping out with every can of beer that she ingested, slowly leaving her body in a much less tensed state than it had been all day. Or all _week_. And when he tentatively put his arm around her, she leaned into his side and welcomed his touch.

Once again, he was thinking of how badly he wanted to kiss her. But there wasn't nearly enough alcohol in his system yet for _that_ kind of courage.

Then she got up and went around to the bed of the truck, and while he thought she was grabbing another beer, she was actually checking to see if he still had a couple of blankets stashed in the toolbox. Which he did. She suggested they lay the blankets out in the bed of the truck and leave the tailgate open so they could be more comfortable. So he happily turned the truck around, backing up to the top of the hill, and shut it off once more before setting out the blankets and creating a makeshift bed in the back of the pickup.

And then they were sitting close together atop the blankets, shoes kicked off and cold beers in their hands, gazing out at the skyline and the stars. Though he couldn't seem to take his eyes off of _her_ \- the way her long, blonde hair rolled down her back and ruffled in the breeze, the way her eyes drank in the sights set out before her, and particularly the way her pink lips wouldn't stop smiling. She looked weightless out here, lifted high above all the baggage that had threatened to drag her down for the last two weeks. Her laughter filled him with warmth, and he tightened his arm around her and pulled her closer every chance he got.

When the steady buzz of cicadas had mostly died out, and Beth was three or four beers deep into forgetting all her problems, she grabbed her guitar from inside the truck and perched herself on the edge of the tailgate. Daryl sat back on his elbows and sipped his beer, watching her strum and trying to burn the image of her - all tanned skin and long hair and half-drunken smiles glowing against the darkness around them and the lights off in the distance - into his brain forever. He wanted to be able to picture _this moment_ in his head forever.

But more than that, he wanted it to _last_ forever. Everything felt so peaceful in the bed of his old pickup truck with nothing but blankets and beer and Beth. It all felt so _right_.

She strummed playfully for a bit, playing a couple of short tunes and loosening her fingers, her smile slowly fading into a slight frown of concentration. Then she started plucking out the beginning of a song, the sound growing steadier as she fell into rhythm, fingers pressing tightly against the frets. He watched the muscles in her thin arms flexing, repeatedly tensing and relaxing. A small smile returned to her face but her gaze remained focused on the strings she was strumming.

And then the melody registered in his mind and he recognized it just as she began to open her mouth and sing: an old country song, something from way before her time. Her voice rang out around them, filling the night air and drifting out across the open field, echoing inside his chest and making his breath hitch. She was the only thing he could see, and her melodic singing was the only thing he could hear.

"_We started the tour out in Denver, Colorado. I made the first one, but I did not make the second show. 'Cause I met this girl there that brought about quite a big change… But I OD'd in Denver, an' I just can't remember her name…_"

A light chill ran up and down his spine and he reflexively jiggled his foot to the music, slightly nodding his head along and watching her intently. Her saccharine voice drawled out and dripped across his skin like warm molasses, and though she didn't look up at him, he couldn't take his eyes off her. He'd completely forgotten about the beer in his hand, and all the anger and sadness that had been surrounding him all day suddenly felt miles away.

It was just him and her, and this old country song that was inexplicably making his heart thump at an unprecedented speed. Something about those familiar lyrics coming out in her feminine voice made it sound almost haunting. Like he'd never heard it quite like _this_ before.

"..._Doc said, son, you can't do anymore of that cocaine. But she made me higher than all a those expensive things. But I OD'd in Denver, wish I could remember her name… Now I turned to other things, tryin' ta make my daydreams real - but they don't take the place of a woman's face, and her feels. She treated me nice an' I'd like ta find her again. But I OD'd in Denver, and I just can't remember her name… I brought it on myself and I guess that I shouldn't complain. Be damned if I'll ever do anymore of that cocaine…_"

As the last few lines poured from her mouth and sunk into his bones, she lifted her head and looked over at him. He wasn't sure if it was a trick of the low light or just his imagination, but he could've swore he saw something flicker in those cornflower blues, intense and meaningful, as they met his steady gaze.

And when she strummed the final chords and softly ended the song, he could feel her _telling_ him something. He could _hear_ it - in the music, in her body language, in the way her eyes set solely on him and refused to drift away.

He just had no idea how to respond.

It took several more beers, a few cigarettes, and a handful of good songs. Then he responded in the only way he knew how - the only way that felt appropriate, that somehow felt _right_. As they sat close together on the edge of the tailgate, his arm around her lower back and a beer in his other hand, she turned her head and looked up at him with a crooked little half-smile and, without warning, the courage he'd been searching for welled up and burst to life within him, begging to be freed. And he finally leaned in and closed his eyes and pressed his lips softly against hers.

It was worth the weeks of waiting.

Even with all the beer in his system, he would always vividly remember the way she momentarily froze, as though she were caught by surprise. He held his breath without realizing it and waited for the signal that it was okay, prepared to pull away and apologize. But it didn't take more than a second for her to lean into him, to kiss him back and press her body tightly against his. And then a surge of adrenaline rushed through his veins and he couldn't remember a time when he'd ever felt more _alive_.

After that, their instincts kicked in. The tension that constantly settled around them faded away completely and morphed into something new, something unfounded and unfamiliar. It evolved into a creature of its own, tying a thick, unbreakable thread around both their wrists, binding them together with something they'd never had before, never experienced or felt or understand.

They never stood a chance. Not just him, but _either_ of them.

The kissing turned into feverishly making out, which quickly escalated to heavy petting. In Daryl's head, it was a wispy, half-drunken blur of exposed skin, fingers slipping beneath shirts and pants, hot breaths on necks, and _a lot_ of excruciatingly wonderful friction in _all_ the right places. Like a natural progression that should've taken place a long time ago - that they both _wanted_ to take place a long time ago, but would never give in to until now. The singing crickets and hooting owls played as background music to the steady hums and moans that elicited from her mouth, and the breathy gasps and soft grunts that escaped his own.

He felt drunk on far more than beer when he was buried deep inside her. She tasted sweeter than anything he'd ever had before, and the sounds she made sent a whole new riptide of ecstasy washing over him. He'd _never_ fucked someone like that before. He'd never felt such a _connection_ while being inside of someone.

They tried to use a condom but it was a size too small for him and she definitely noticed. It didn't take long before she was demanding that he take it off, reassuring him that she was on birth control. And for a second, she'd paused - she'd looked him directly in the eye and asked flat-out if he was "clean." But he didn't get offended, barely even batted an eye at the question. It was a legitimate concern, especially considering his track record. But he'd _never_ touch her if he thought there was a chance of tainting her with something. So he just nodded and grunted in reassurance, and he knew that she didn't need anything more than that.

Because, he suddenly realized, she _trusted_ him.

And after they were done, after she'd come onto his fingers twice and then three more times while he was actually fucking her, he found himself leaning down and kissing her. Long and deep, and dare he admit, _meaningfully_. And when he helped her clean up and lay down beside her afterward, completely spent and panting for breath, the realization fell down upon him like a ton of bricks.

He trusted her, too.

* * *

That night was filled with a lot of firsts: The first time he'd made out with someone since high school. The first time he'd fucked a girl that he actually cared about. The first time he'd ever given a shit about his partner getting off before him. The first time he'd kissed a woman after having sex with her…

The first time he'd looked into a woman's eyes while he was inside her and felt something _welcoming_ looking back at him. Something almost _loving_.

He always told himself that he could never quite pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with Beth. But if he actually sifted through all the pain and nostalgia, he knew _precisely_ where to find that moment. He'd felt it, bright and burning and all-encompassing, impossible to ignore. It had been sudden, yet inevitable at the same time. And he remembered it so goddamn _clearly_, like some kind of milestone in his life. Like a fleeting moment of total clarity.

The radio was playing from inside the truck, echoing out around them. It was a song that stuck in his head and remained there forever, epitomizing the moment, sending a sharp sting of agony throughout his whole body whenever that unmistakable beat hit his ears for years to come. It was some stupid hip-hop track by a newer rapper called Drake - he only knew because he vividly remembered the radio DJ announcing it before the music began to play, and because he'd been watching Beth's slender arms gracefully slip through the holes of her T-shirt at the same time.

The lyrics drifted out into the night air while the bass thumped steadily from the old speakers inside his truck, creating a soundtrack for his mental index of pain. Like a reference point among his timeline of suffering.

"_You used to call me on my cell phone,  
Late night when you nee-eed my love.  
Call me on my cell phone,  
Late night when you need my love...  
And I know when that hotline bling,  
That can only mean one thing.  
Ever since I left the city, you…_"

She'd slipped back into her gray T-shirt and cut-off jean shorts, blonde hair a mess from his fingers tangling in it for the last hour, and she was sitting on the tailgate with her tanned legs dangling off the edge. There was a cigarette between her fingers that she was taking leisurely drags off of, slowly puffing out clouds of smoke and watching them dissipate in the night air, barely nodding her head along to the music and silently mouthing the lyrics. She knew this song; she _liked_ this song.

The lights of the skyline off in the distance were reflecting in her eyes, hazy with post-orgasm bliss. And as he leaned back on his elbows and watched her, a forgotten cigarette in his own hand, she turned and looked at him over her shoulder.

The music seemed to fade away into nothing as a coy smile formed on her still-swollen lips, and all he could hear was her sweet voice drawling, "We oughta do that more often."

And though he smirked and chuckled, something was swelling to the point of bursting inside his chest. It surrounded his heart and threatened to shove out every last bit of oxygen within him, as well as every last bit of hate and resentment and cynicism that had settled there over the last few decades.

That was it.

_That_ was the moment he realized he would do _anything_ for this beautiful, scarred girl. _That_ was the moment he fell in love with her. And he never did manage to figure out how to _stop_ falling.

Even when the fear took over and caused him to fuck it all up.

**to be continued...**

* * *

**A/N: **Next chapter will pick up where chapter 6 left off. Thanks for reading!

Lyrics/songs mentioned are "O.D.'d in Denver" by Hank Williams, Jr. and "Hotline Bling" by Drake.


	9. everlong

**A/N: **"Everlong" by Foo Fighters (covered by The Color Morale).

* * *

**everlong**

He tried. He really did. But it felt like she'd drained every single ounce he had left out through his cock, exploding in one magnificent, drawn-out orgasm. The very _sight_ of her perfect body, the feel of her hands on his chest, the heat radiating out from between her legs - it had all been more than enough to send the blood rushing straight to his dick all over again.

But for some reason, it didn't.

He certainly had the desire, there was no doubt about that. There was nothing he wanted more than to delve into her soft, wet cunt and fuck her until she was screaming. He needed to return the sensation of ecstasy that she'd so selflessly given him, needed to show her - _again_ \- just how much she meant to him. He needed her to know without a doubt that he was indescribably grateful for every second he got to spend wrapped up in her naked form, worshipping every inch of her bare body.

He needed her to _want_ to return to him again.

But it simply wasn't happening. She didn't seem to care much, and she assured him that she hadn't expected any favors in return. She tried to convince him that she'd done that for _both_ of them. Yet it didn't ease his anxiety. He knew she was too nice to admit how disappointed she actually was. He could've swore he could see it in her eyes.

And the admonishing thoughts rapidly surfaced at the back of his mind, full-blown paranoia kicking into high gear and making him question everything. He couldn't stop himself from wondering if a _younger_ guy could pleasure her better than he could. A guy her age, who still had stamina and energy and the ability to come and then immediately get hard again and go for round two. And three. And four. Maybe what he was seeing in her eyes was regret; the realization that she'd just wasted her entire evening with a sad old man who couldn't even get hard twice in one night. A pathetic ex-boyfriend who couldn't return the favor when she needed it most.

He nearly made himself sick with the thought that he was getting so old, he couldn't even worship Beth's body properly. That maybe she really _was_ better off without him. Better off with someone her own age. That maybe, if she weren't so fucking _nice_, she'd be telling him that she wished he had the same stamina as when they'd first started sleeping together. Or maybe that she wished he had the same stamina as _Jimmy_.

She was tired, though. Struggling to hold up heavy eyelids, muscles weakened and body drained of energy. He watched her move slowly and leisurely as she slipped her camisole back on, and then she was practically collapsing against him on the couch, wrapping her arms around his middle and burying her face in his chest. They fell back together and curled up with each other, bare skin against bare skin as he lay on the couch in nothing but his boxers and she melded against him in nothing but her panties and thin camisole top. She was radiating warmth like a tiny space heater again, but he immediately let it consume him, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close.

Before he could suggest they move to the bedroom, he felt her going slack against him, her small frame completely relaxing and growing ten pounds heavier in his arms. He sighed in defeat when he realized her breathing had steadied right along with her heartbeat, and admitted to himself that he didn't have the energy to pick her up and carry her to the bed. Nor did he have the willpower to wake her up and make her move. What if she woke up and suddenly remembered that she needed to leave?

No, he wanted to cherish this moment. This night, this closeness. He wanted to milk it for all it was worth. And he _didn't_ want to try to fall asleep alone with her scent still permeating his skin.

The credits were rolling on the TV screen for the Netflix movie they'd been watching, a suggestion for another movie similar to it popping up in the corner and demanding attention. Daryl glanced at the clock to find that it had just passed four in the morning. He looked down to the soundly sleeping form wrapped around his body, the abyss of blonde hair spread out over his chest and arm. He squeezed her a little tighter and inhaled a deep breath filled with her familiar and comforting scent.

A few minutes of lying still, holding her close to him and internally arguing with himself, and then he was carefully reaching over to grab his phone from where it sat near the edge of the coffee table. He made sure not to disturb her while he unlocked the screen and opened his text messages, quietly typing out a text to Dwight and reading over it through squinted eyes before tapping Send. Then he set the phone back down, carefully and quietly, before muting the TV and wrapping his arm around her once more.

_Hey can you let Joe know I can't come in today? Been up all night sick as shit, think I got that stomach bug going around. See you on Monday._

With his head resting on the pillow he'd brought out to the couch, the blanket thrown over their intertwined forms, and the glow of the Netflix menu basking over them, he closed his eyes and snuggled into her. And within moments, he'd drifted off to a deep sleep, his mind filled with nothing but _Beth_, _Beth_, _Beth_. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

* * *

It started raining while they were sleeping. The sky had been overcast for the last two days, but it finally came to fruition in the pre-dawn hours while they lay wrapped up together beneath a blanket on the couch, heater vents steadily humming on the walls around them, bare skin glistening with shared perspiration in the warmth of the apartment and their closeness.

It was the thunder that woke Daryl up first. A sharp _crack_, loud and resonating outside, echoing through the whole city and nearly shaking the building. His eyes popped open and his body jerked reactively, but as soon as he comprehended his surroundings and heard the low rumbles of thunder that followed, the familiar pattern of raindrops falling steadily atop the roof, he relaxed. A bright flash filled the sky outside the windows, very briefly lighting up the inside of the apartment. Then more rumbling, trembling claps of heavenly disturbance. The pattering of water continued, falling upon the roof above him as well as every other surface outside, echoing an unmistakable rhythm throughout the city.

Yet she didn't react even once. She remained completely unaware and undisturbed, sleeping deeply and breathing heavily against him. Every couple of minutes, a light snoring sound would escape her throat, and he could feel the small patch of drool on his chest that stemmed from the corner of her mouth. But he didn't mind. Actually, he kind of liked it.

Well, he _really_ liked it. To the point that he wrapped his arms tighter around her and closed his eyes, breathing in her scent, letting the mixture of melodic and comforting sounds fill his ears and lull him back to sleep.

Her soft, quiet breathing. The falling rain outside. The low rumbles of thunder. The mechanical hum of central heating. And her heartbeat, strong and steady and pulsing in time with his own.

There was absolutely _nowhere_ else he'd rather be.

* * *

He woke up again a few hours later. It was still early morning and the sun had brightened the sky, though only barely. Everything outside was coated in gray, and the rain was continuing its steady pattering atop every surface of the city. Thunder rumbled low and ominous, rattling glass and warning the earth of the blinding flashes of light to follow. Everything seemed to have slowed down and quieted in the early hours of the gloomy morning, and they barely stirred beneath the blanket while the vents hummed to life and poured out fresh waves of hot air.

When he lifted his heavy eyelids and gazed down through a haze of sleep, he saw her eyelashes fluttering, and then bright blue eyes were blinking rapidly and darting around curiously. He watched the recognition settle over her and felt her relax against him once she remembered where she was and registered everything that was happening.

Then her eyes widened and she lifted her head abruptly to look at him. He blinked back at her, brow furrowing.

"Daryl - aren't you s'posed to be at work?!" She asked, panicked.

He smirked and urged her to relax into him once more, softly shaking his head. "Nah, Joe texted me an' told me not ta come in," he mumbled sleepily. Lying because he was too ashamed to admit he'd blown off work for just a few more hours with her. "Ain't got nowhere else ta be."

She immediately melted into him, humming out a quiet, "Oh."

Then she was nuzzling into his chest, pressing herself as close to his body as she could get, before her breathing steadied again and he felt her drifting back to sleep. He pushed back the dread that was beginning to form at the thought of her leaving, the prospect of having to wake up and watch her walk out his door. The reminder that he had no idea when he'd see her again, or if he'd ever get to sleep like this with her again.

He tightened his arms around her and closed his eyes, listening to the melodic rhythm of the rain and thunder, matching it with her quiet breaths and heartbeat. It morphed into a beautiful song inside his head. A symphony consisting of nothing but her body and the forces of nature.

And when sleep enveloped him once again, his mind was filled with_ Beth, I love you, Beth, please __**stay**_.

* * *

They stirred awake again a few hours later. It was past noon, but the dreariness outside hadn't let up. The sky was barely brighter than before, still rumbling and cracking with thunder, bright and brief flashes of lightning that lit up everything for seconds at a time. The rain was continuous atop the roof, washing over the city in sporadic bursts. As though the heavens were trying to purge themselves of something impure.

And Daryl found himself still wrapped up in Beth, the blanket tangled around their legs and half-covering their bare torsos. Her skin was pale against his and sticky with perspiration. She had her arm wrapped tightly around his middle, holding him so close that he couldn't bear to pry her off, not even to get up and go to the bathroom. They seemed to resume consciousness simultaneously, and he could feel her breathing changing and her muscles flexing against him. Then she was humming sleepily and nuzzling her face into his chest, thin arms tightening around him.

It sent a surge of warmth through him, peppered with the light sting of yearning. He wanted to wake up like this every single morning. And the way she was snuggling into him, pulling him closer, clinging to him like a life raft in the middle of the ocean… it made him think that maybe _she_ wanted to wake up like this every morning, too.

Or maybe it was just an old reflex. Another bout of muscle memory, like when she'd come in and made herself at home on his raggedy little couch. Some things were just impossible to forget.

But then she was turning her head and looking up at him through sleep-clouded eyes, and a lazy smile formed on her lips. He blinked slowly, silently responding with a half-smile of his own. The warmth bloomed wide and full in his chest once again.

"Mornin'," she mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep.

"Mornin'," he croaked, giving her small frame a squeeze with his arm. She raised her eyebrows and he cleared his throat, then he said, "Gotta pee."

She smiled wider and rubbed her eyes, quickly pulling away and sitting up. "Oh - hurry up, I gotta go, too," she said, yawning as she scooted over and retracted her limbs, giving him the space he needed to sit up and get off the couch.

He grunted and headed to the bathroom, stumbling a bit at first as he tried to fully wake up and regain all his motor skills. His body was heavy with exhaustion and his mouth was horribly dry, a bitter taste left over from the whiskey lingering on his tongue. But he had to admit, he hadn't slept that well in _months_. Maybe even years. He felt like he could curl back up with her and sleep for another eight or ten or twelve hours.

When he left the bathroom, she quickly got up and rushed in, shutting the door behind her. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, gulping down nearly half the bottle as he stood on the cold tile in nothing but his boxers. She emerged from the bathroom a couple of minutes later and joined him, helping herself to his water bottle and taking a few hearty swallows before handing it back over.

Before he could reach out for her or say anything, she was turning and walking toward the bedroom, feet shuffling and barely lifting as she seemed to drag herself through the apartment while only half-awake. He remained standing in the kitchen, watching her curiously.

"We goin' back ta bed?" He asked.

She paused in the doorway to his bedroom and glanced over her shoulder at him, blinking slowly and shrugging. "_You_ don't have to, but I'm gonna lay back down."

Without another word, he followed her, heart surging with renewed hope. They left their clothes in a pile on the living room floor and their phones sitting on the coffee table, retreating to the safety of his big, empty bed. He set the water bottle on the nightstand and curled up beneath the comforter with her. Sparse bits of sunlight were leaking in through the windows, drenched in gray water that left a haze over the small room.

Outside, people were going about their days. Commuting to work and school, heading to lunch, taking care of their families and socializing with friends, braving the cold air and even colder rain. But in here, Beth and Daryl were sloughing off every responsibility and hiding together. They were shutting out the rest of the world and losing themselves in a narrow, bottomless pit of old comforts and unbreakable habits. Building a cocoon around each other that consisted of central heating, soft blankets, and the smell of sex and flowery shampoo.

There was a few minutes of writhing around together, getting comfortable, nuzzling into one another and cuddling closer for warmth. Neither of them had bothered to put on shirts. Her nipples were hard against his bare chest and she pressed herself against him, squirming around restlessly. Then she was planting light kisses along his collarbone, across the expanse of his exposed throat. Her arms were wrapped around him, fingers barely grasping the skin of his shoulder blades.

She was humming with contentment again from low in her throat, sending a soft vibration through his whole chest. Her breasts were pressed softly against him and before he could do anything to prevent it, he felt the subtle twitching of his cock as it came to life beneath his boxers. He slid his hands down to cup her ass, fluidly slipping his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties to grasp handfuls of bare skin.

"_Mmm_," he purred reflexively when her lips grazed the pulsepoint on his neck. "Thought you were _tired_."

She exhaled a hot breath across his skin and pushed her ass up into his hands, urging him to grasp harder. And he did.

Her voice was still heavy with sleep, but there was something else lacing it, too. And he could feel it ghosting over his neck as she planted another kiss and whispered, "Not _that_ tired. _Yet_..."

His cock twitched much more noticeably this time and she brushed her thigh against it meaningfully, leaning into him and trailing kisses up his jaw until her lips were meeting his. He had no choice in the matter - his body had already made the decision for him. Not that he would've disagreed anyway.

He gripped her ass and pulled her in closer, silently begging for more friction against his rapidly growing erection. This was the first time he'd woken up without morning wood in several months, and he had a pretty good idea why. But thankfully, it didn't matter right now. He was having absolutely _no_ trouble regaining the stamina and desire that had emptied out of him the night before. It seemed that a few solid hours of sleep had done his body some good, and the pressure was already beginning to build in that indescribable spot deep within him, somewhere below the very bottom of his stomach.

Her body was already warm and getting hotter by the second, and she was pressing herself to him, desperately grasping at his back and pulling him closer, grinding herself against his groin harder and harder. Their mouths were colliding, tongues grappling aggressively, lips quickly growing red and swollen and wet with shared saliva. He could feel the heat between her legs rising, radiating outward and inviting him closer.

He broke away for air and gasped out, "_Stay_ with me - till you gotta go ta work. I'll give you a ride. Jus' stay here with me."

He barely lifted his eyelids to see her gazing at him, wide blue eyes sparkling and pupils growing wider, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Ain't you got somethin' more_ important_ ta do?"

Those words stung. But she'd pressed herself tighter against him while she said it and ended up leaving him confused, unsure of how to interpret the mixed messages she was constantly sending. Did she need reassurance before she could allow herself to fall back into the cradle of being isolated with him? Or was she just trying to remind him, once again, of another one of the shortcomings that had brought them to this point?

Another one of his massive fuck-ups that he could never quite atone for. How could he ever make her believe that she was a priority when he'd spent so many years proving the opposite? Where was he even supposed to start?

_Here_, he reckoned. It was as good a place as any. And he had to start _somewhere_.

So he kissed her, _hard_, stealing her very breath from between her parted lips. And he ground his pelvis into hers, wordlessly begging for more friction, more _her_ against his skin. And when he felt her chest stuttering, her nipples hardening and poking into him all over again, he pulled his face back briefly.

"There ain't a single goddamn thing I'd choose over this. Today or _any_ day."

Her eyelids fluttered and she remained breathless, cornflower blues searching his face as though she wasn't quite sure whether she should believe him or not. Then she pressed her mouth to his and his eyes fell shut and he melted into her for the millionth time, relishing in the way her fingers seemed to grasp at his back a little more frantically; the way she kissed him a little more desperately, and her body pushed against him like she couldn't get close enough.

_Did_ she believe him? Or was she just giving in to a craving and allowing herself to be weak for a day?

It didn't really matter. Not anymore. Not when she was so close and so hot and practically _pleading_ for him to touch her, for him to relieve the pressure that had built up several hours before. The fresh memory of her soft lips around his hard cock, her throat flexing as she drained him dry, flashed through his mind and sent a rush of blood between his legs. His heart sped up and he kissed her a little harder, a little more hungrily.

He briefly wondered if she was thinking of the night before, too. If it made her pussy quiver to remember how intensely she'd made him come, how limitless their boundaries were. Did she have any idea that she was the _only_ woman he would _ever_ allow to touch him like _that_? Did she even realize that he'd never, _ever_ come like that before, whether by himself or with _anyone_ else?

He wasn't sure, but the way she pushed against him and took charge, the way she moved with confidence and self-assurance, gave him a bit of an idea. She certainly wasn't oblivious to the power she held over him.

Neither was he, though. He offered no resistance, giving in to her every will and interpreting her every silent motion. Following the invisible map that was etched into her skin and echoed in her body language. Ignoring the quiet voice at the back of his head telling him that it wouldn't last, that there was nothing he could do to change things and it would only end up hurting them both when it was all said and done.

But when had fucking her ever been a _bad_ thing? Despite whatever happened, he never _once_ regretted laying down and intertwining himself with her. Not _once_ did he ever wish that he hadn't kissed her, hadn't fingered her, hadn't fucked her or fell asleep with her or told her that she was _the_ sweetest tasting woman he'd _ever_ had in his mouth.

He never regretted saying 'I love you' either, not even for a second.

He still couldn't convince himself that it wasn't _making_ _love _with her. Even after all the months apart, even with the alcohol and the bad decisions and the treacherous path full of mistakes and hurtful words that had led them there. It wasn't just a toe dip into the cold pond of nostalgia for him - it was a full submersion into an abyss of need where he absolutely could _not_ breathe without her.

They weren't_ just friends._ They could never _be_ 'just friends' - that wasn't _possible_ for them. Not for him. Definitely not for her. And he knew the charade couldn't last long. She cared too damn much and she was awful at hiding it. She was also awful at resisting temptation. But how would she explain it away this time? Friends, _best_ friends… fucking, dating, back together? How the fuck was _he_ supposed to explain it to _himself_?

It didn't matter. He didn't care. _Couldn't_ care. Didn't have the _capacity_ to care. Not with her carnal heat so palpable against his thigh, not when he could feel her getting wet as they kissed and his fingers dug into the twin crevices below her pert little ass.

All he wanted was to feel the tight walls of her cunt constricting around him and her teeth digging into the soft flesh of his neck. To hear her breathy moans and high-pitched squeals, to hear her _begging_ him for release. He _needed_ to return the incredible favor she'd done for him. He needed her to know how much he appreciated her, how much he would _always_ appreciate her. Even if he couldn't perform quite as well as the younger guys who were competing for her attention.

(But she'd come back after last time, so maybe he'd given her a _reason_ to return - maybe it didn't _matter_ that he didn't have the stamina of a twenty-something-year-old. Maybe all that mattered was that he knew her, and she was comfortable with him, and they could do things together that they could never do with anyone else. Was that enough to keep her interested?)

He had an irresistible desire to prove to her that he was the _only_ one who could read her body like a memorized book. The only one who could lower her defenses and give her everything she craved, everything she secretly needed. The only one who could _really_ satisfy her.

How many more nights and mornings would it take before she believed him? How many other men - _boys_ \- whose faces he'd never even see would he have to compete with?

When their mouths broke apart this time, it was her doing, and her breathing was hot and heavy against his parted lips. He barely lifted his eyelids to see a sleepy smile on her face.

Then she mumbled, "Guess I could stay fer a few more hours… we gotta leave by three, though, so I can stop at Brittany's an' shower before - "

He cut her off by kissing her again, swallowing the remaining words she'd been about to speak. He groaned in his throat when she tightened her grasp on him in response, and he could feel her smiling wider against his mouth. It sent another rush of blood to his twitching cock.

Unable to wait any longer, he grabbed her purposefully and rolled their conjoined bodies over until she was lying on her back beneath him, caged in by his arms and broad frame. He didn't stop kissing her even as she yelped in surprise, and then he was pushing his hips into hers, intentionally brushing his barely-covered erection across her inner thigh.

He nibbled on her lower lip and pulled back to gaze down at her with hooded eyes, finding her pupils wide and black, her cheeks flushed pink and lips red. "Don' worry - I'll getcha _everywhere_ ya need ta be today." Then he kissed her again, hard and hungry.

He could tell that she understood exactly what he meant, and that he _really_ meant it. She bucked into him, silently pleading for more friction and more closeness, kissing him desperately and shoving her tongue into his mouth. She urged his hard-on against her thigh, pushing the warmth that lay between her legs closer until he could feel the damp cotton of her panties through his boxers.

A shudder ran through his whole body and he growled, grounding his pelvis down into her and gaining delicious friction between their thinly-veiled arousals. Her breathing stuttered and she bit down on his lower lip, eliciting a deeper growl from his throat. She was getting noticeably wetter, noticeably _hotter_. And he was feeling less and less inhibited, but not because of alcohol this time.

He was getting drunk solely on the lust she'd filled him with. He was getting drunk on _her_.

He dragged his lips away from hers, trailing sloppy kisses across her cheek and down her neck, pausing to mumble against pebbled skin, "I wanna feel that wet li'l pussy around my _cock_, baby…"

She shivered so intensely that it wracked her body and he could feel her nipples hardening against his bare chest, the goosebumps that were travelling up and down her arms and legs. The heat between her thighs had become like a tiny oven, and he pressed his throbbing cock against it until he could feel her moist, supple lips grazing him through the fabric. He continued kissing her neck, digging his teeth in gently as he ground down into her again.

Suddenly, her hips bucked up into him _hard_, and her fingernails dug into his back and she was moaning out a sound of half-ecstasy and half-torture. Then she was whimpering and begging him, "_Fuck_ me, baby. _Please_."

It was at that point that Daryl's instincts took over and he realized he absolutely could _not_ wait any longer. Even if it meant coming within two minutes and disappointing Beth again, he _needed_ to be inside her. Right _now_.

In one fluid motion, he slipped his hand down between their bodies and inside her dampened panties, immediately pressing his fingers against her swollen clit and rubbing it for a few long seconds, relishing in the shudders that were wracking her body and the way her fingernails were digging into the skin of his back. Then he slid his fingers down through her folds, quickly finding the main source of intense heat and a pool of arousal waiting for him.

He shoved one digit easily inside her wet entrance and his breath hitched in his chest as she gasped in response before pressing down onto his finger, urging him deeper inside. Her juices leaked out across his hand and his cock twitched reactively, aching with need, precome soaking a spot through his boxers. He pressed his thumb against her clit and continued the pressure in time with his curling fingers within her walls.

She was trembling around him, breathing in small squeals and gasps, rocking her hips into his hand while he delved deeper, until he felt that tiny wall of pressure at his fingertips. Her pussy quivered around his digits and he felt his hand getting wetter, so he pressed his thumb harder against her clit and stroked that spot inside her, barely able to focus on his own breathing. His face was buried in the crook of her neck and he sporadically kissed her, nibbling lightly with every few curls of his fingers. Her squeals quickly escalated into moans, high and loud, filling his ears and making his cock throb until it was _aching_.

Then she froze, and her muscles tensed against him as her moaning paused. Half a second later, she was coming into his hand, the pressure releasing around his fingers like a bursting dam. The sounds of pleasure were trapped in her throat and slowly poured out once the first intense wave of her climax had passed and unclenched her muscles. She rode it out, shakily rocking her hips out of time with his hand. Her fingernails gradually released their grip on his back and her mouth found his. She kissed him slowly, her bottom lip still trembling, and gasped into his mouth when he slipped his fingers out.

He immediately hooked his thumb beneath the elastic of her panties and tugged them down. They broke apart just long enough for her to pull them off her legs and toss them aside while he quickly took off his boxers. His cock jutted out between them, painfully engorged, head glistening with precome. The ache below his stomach had turned into a heavy weight that sunk down into his balls, and feeling her legs wrapping tightly around him, her bare thigh grazing against his hard dick as she yanked him in closer to her and kissed him feverishly, only sent more of that weight straight downward.

Between his seeping precome and her tender, soaking cunt, it was an effortless entrance inside her. She'd already pulled him close and brought him into the curled cradle of her petite form, but then she whispered against his lips, "I _need_ your dick, baby." And that was the last tiny push he required.

The tight, swollen walls of her pussy quivered around him as he pushed inside, wet warmth swallowing up his entire length and sending a bolt of ecstasy through his body. He couldn't stifle the moan that escaped his throat, biting down on her bottom lip instead.

She bucked up into him and shoved him deeper inside, letting out a moan that nearly matched his. He thrust into her greedily, hitting _that_ spot like he'd been magnetized to it, and she keened high and loud. Her chest pressed against his and her legs tightened around him and she panted breathlessly, silently urging him to _do it again_. He could feel her juices seeping out and down their thighs and he could faintly hear the familiar sound they made as he repeatedly shoved himself inside her, barely audible over her loud breathing and high-pitched moans.

He nearly forgot to breathe while he was inside of her, too enraptured with her every sound and movement, with the way she tasted on his lips and the way she grasped at him with an insatiable thirst. Then he buried his face into the crook of her neck again and breathed in the smell of her hair, kissing her collarbone and the tender parts of her exposed throat. The heat around his cock was building to an excruciating level, matching the pressure that was continuously rising within him.

It was almost like he was overflowing - like it was impossible to keep himself from bursting open atop her. She filled his lungs and his mouth and his entire body with an emotion so thick and palpable that he had to let _some_ of it out just so he could _breathe_ properly.

"I love you, baby," he growled against her throat. "_Fuck_, I love you."

She shuddered beneath him and her legs tightened around him in response. He felt her chest heave and her hips buck up into his, jutting bones digging into soft muscle and sending a delicious mixture of pain and ecstasy pulsing through his cock. He thrust into her _hard_ and drank in the tiny gasp that elicited from her open mouth.

"I love _you_," she breathed out. She couldn't say anymore because she was immediately gasping again when he shoved himself inside her even harder, unable to control his sudden reaction to _those_ words hitting his ears.

The pressure was intensifying, building and building to the point of becoming unbearable. But she was getting close, too - he could _feel_ it. He could hear it in the familiar pattern of her breathing and moaning. He finally gave up trying to hold back and instead focused on timing his climax with hers, keeping up the steady rhythm that their rocking hips had formed together until she was barely breathing and her walls were impossibly tight around his engorged cock.

Then it was bursting against the head of his dick, releasing and engulfing him in a fresh onslaught of heat. The trembling waves of her cunt around him finally sent him over the edge, and as she broke apart beneath him and succumbed to the rush of her orgasm, he felt his own rapidly rising to the surface.

He couldn't even focus enough to form words, and his warning came out as a strained grunt against her neck as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. But she could recognize the signals, and he was almost certain she could feel the effects inside her, even amidst the overwhelming sensations of her own climax.

And she gripped his back a little harder and pressed herself a little tighter against him and moaned out in a desperate plea, "Say my name, baby."

Without so much as a second of hesitation, Daryl thrust up into her intently and succumbed to the orgasm that wanted to consume him. And while his cock erupted hot and thick inside her and he released every last bit he had into the warm depths of her cunt, he groaned out with torturous bliss, "_Oh_, Beth…!"

Seconds later, with stars still flickering in the backs of his eyelids and flooding his head, he felt her mouth against his, kissing him hungrily. He bucked into her again, aftershocks running their course through his body, draining the last of his come from his swollen cock. She trembled beneath him but didn't pull away, and her legs barely loosened their firm grip around his thighs.

After that, all he could really feel was her warm palm against his cheek as her other hand lightly carded through his hair. All he could hear was the steady pattering of rain on the rooftop above them, and the low thunder rolling through the sky.

And then her throaty voice filled his ears, anchoring him back down to earth just before he began to float away.

"'M glad you didn't have ta work today."

He reflexively smirked and mumbled back, "'M glad you stayed."

**to be continued...**


	10. the queen and i I

**A/N: **"The Queen and I" by Gym Class Heroes (pt 1).

* * *

**the queen and i I**

He saw the irony in her vices, in the substances she chose to use as she attempted to drown her demons. He wasn't blind or stupid, and he wasn't being willfully ignorant either. He was just trying really hard not to think about it or focus on it, because he knew it was no good trying to say something. She was just as aware as he was, probably more so.

But it had never mattered to her. She knew full well what kind of path her daddy had gone down for the entirety of his life. She knew all about the destructive pattern constantly looming at the back of Hershel Greene's head, threatening to tear down everything he'd worked to build over the years despite its presence. Maggie had certainly never let her forget either. But neither sister seemed terribly eager to break the cycle, or to find another way to numb their unspoken pain.

Well, Maggie did. She found an important career, a husband, and a new family, apparently. But that left Beth even more lost than before, treading in dark waters without her sister's guidance. It was only logical that she'd fall a little farther into the bottle. She was simply utilizing the only crutch she had left.

Like father like daughter, right?

Daryl tried - _continuously_ \- to ignore it. Especially now. Now that he had no place, no _right_ to criticize her or offer "advice." Sure, it was unhealthy, but she was still functioning, still going about the routines and rituals, still managing her responsibilities and doing her best to make it through. So who was he to try and tell her how to live her life? After everything he'd put her through, all the scars he'd contributed? He was partly to blame for the ticking time bomb that she'd become, after all.

But when he watched her climb out of his bed, slip on her camisole, and head straight into the kitchen to throw back a shot of whiskey, his heart skipped and plummeted down to his feet.

Was _this_ what it had come to?

She didn't even wince. As if the shame were already long past numbed. As if she were _daring_ him to try and say something, to push their newly built boundaries. She quickly poured another shot and swallowed it down as well, then headed to the bathroom without so much as a glance back at him. _Who_ had she _become_ in their months apart?

Did he really want to find out?

* * *

Their hours together on Friday ended much too quickly for his liking. Time slipped away and before he knew it, three o'clock had come and gone and she was still lying in bed with him, listening to the rain outside and mumbling about how she didn't want to go to work. But she got up anyway and hopped in his shower (after grabbing a beer to take with her, which slightly dumbfounded him). And shortly after four, he was driving her back to Brittany's place so she could change into her work clothes (and spray some perfume to mask the scent of booze).

She reached out and casually held his hand during the ride to the apartment _and_ the ride to her workplace, and he didn't object either time. But it hurt a little more when her fingers slipped out of his for the last time and he finally had to drop her off and watch her walk away. He sat and stared until she'd disappeared inside the little restaurant, his arm tingling from her absence.

He made her promise to eat something before she went out drinking after work. And she voluntarily promised to text him soon. He didn't want to get his hopes up, but something about the way she said it made his heart swell with anticipation.

He didn't notice the dark purple hickey she'd left on his neck until he got home and looked in the mirror. He spent the rest of the day overthinking every single detail of their night together, replaying moment after moment inside his head. And when his stomach began to ache with a pain that couldn't be cured with food or Pepto Bismol, he poured himself a full glass of whiskey and sat down on the couch to wait for Beth's name to pop up on his phone.

* * *

She texted him after work on Friday night to ask how his day was and tell him that she was going to a concert with her friends, but she'd stopped responding by midnight. He spent the rest of the night struggling to sleep, struggling even harder to resist the temptation to lurk through her social media accounts.

But it was no use. Something had sparked back to life within him and it felt _impossible_ to stay away from her now, to _not_ _care_. It was almost a morbid curiosity, like he was _expecting_ to find heartbreak and disappointment awaiting him somewhere amongst the dozens of Instagram photos and Facebook posts. Like he was looking for a reason to definitively _not_ _care_. Something to cement the anger and resentment, to reignite the assurance that they didn't _belong_ in one another's lives.

All he found was a lot of poetry, indie songs, pictures with friends at parties, and stupid jokes. All traces of Jimmy, of her last several months in a "happy relationship," were gone, as was any evidence of any other suitors. Or it was just omitted. Either way, the only thing he stumbled upon that made him _feel_ something were the old photos of them together.

She hadn't deleted them. Not a single one. She hadn't even changed the heart emoji-filled captions. They were all still there: Beth and Daryl in a bar with drunken smiles on their faces. Beth and Daryl next to a Christmas tree in holiday sweaters. Daryl kissing Beth in front of a "Happy New Year" banner. Beth kissing Daryl while holding the bouquet of roses he'd bought her for Valentine's Day. Both of them standing with a small group of friends at one of the many parties they'd attended throughout the years. Both of them standing on the Las Vegas Strip with obscenely large cups of alcohol in their hands. Both of them in coordinated Halloween costumes and surrounded by drunken, costumed friends. Both of them _happy_.

Their time together, all the memories they'd made… It was all _still_ _there_.

He didn't know why that mattered so much to him. He knew it was stupid, that it didn't actually _mean_ anything.

Nonetheless, he couldn't stop himself from growing a little more hopeful.

* * *

On Saturday, she texted him around four to say that she was horribly hungover at work, then she asked what he was doing that night. He told her he didn't have any plans, but she didn't respond after that. He assumed she'd gotten busy and had better things to do - she seemed to have a lot more friends nowadays than he remembered.

So when Dwight texted shortly after eight and asked if he was "over his stomach bug yet," Daryl accepted the invitation to their favorite bar and changed out of his sweatpants for the first time all day.

He and Dwight's favorite bar was quiet and a little run-down, but the bartender knew them well and always overpoured, and after a long week of dealing with customers and coworkers, the two friends were more than happy to sit in a darkened establishment amongst no more than fifteen or twenty other patrons. For the last two days, whenever the sun went down and the night got colder, the steady rain outside turned to snow flurries that melted as soon as they hit the ground. The two friends sat at the bar with their coats on the backs of their chairs and cold beers in their hands, relaxing in the warmth of central heating. The jukebox played old country songs at a low volume and for the first hour, Daryl sat and listened to Dwight rant about how shitty work had been the day before.

But he kept glancing at his phone, lying face-up on the surface before him, dark and silent. He couldn't stop wondering what Beth was doing for longer than two minutes at a time.

Dwight noticed that Daryl was only half-present and eventually pointed it out. At first, Daryl shrugged and mumbled an apology, quickly suggesting they step outside for a cigarette. But when he stood up from the barstool and moved to grab his coat, the dim light shone on his neck just right and Dwight scoffed loudly. Daryl recognized the sound, and the look on his friend's face, almost immediately. He tried to cover his obvious shame by turning away and slipping his coat on, lifting the collar over his marked neck.

But Dwight was already commenting, his tone thick with sarcasm, "_Huh_ \- that looks pretty fresh. You burn yerself with the flatiron this mornin', or…?"

Daryl met his friend's knowing gaze with narrowed eyes, shrugging his tensed shoulders and trying not to get defensive. "What'd ya want me ta tell ya - that I was takin' a _personal_ _day_?"

Dwight smirked and responded in a much lighter tone, "Ain't gotta lie ta _me_, man. You was gettin' some action, havin' a bed day with somebody - I get it."

"A _bed_ _day_?" Daryl mocked.

Dwight chuckled and stood up, grabbing his coat and slipping it on as he continued, "I'ono - that's what Sherry calls it. _You_ know what I mean. All I was try'na say's that I'm happy for ya, dude. I think it's _good_ that yer finally movin' on."

This was the part of the conversation Daryl had been dreading and actively trying to avoid. He had _no_ reason to lie to Dwight - except when it came to Beth. Because _that_ shame was a little too intense for him to handle at the moment, and way too difficult to hide.

They were grabbing their beers and heading outside, pulling packs of cigarettes from coat pockets and sparking lighters, so Dwight didn't notice the tell-tale look on Daryl's face, or the obvious hunch in his shoulders. Not until they were standing outside the door of the bar, puffing on cigarettes and creating large clouds of smoke and hot air amidst the flurries of snow that were slowly falling from the sky. Then Dwight looked over at Daryl, swallowing a swig of beer and narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

He _knew_. They'd been friends for too long, they'd gotten blind drunk and talked too many times, they'd seen too many ugly sides of one another. Beth left traces of her presence every single time, without fail, and Dwight was always the first to spot them, to pick up on the lasting effect she had on Daryl. Any attempts to hide it were futile because the evidence was written all over Daryl's face, in the tone of his voice, in the shadow of his stance. And this time, she'd left _physical_ evidence. Like an unmistakable calling card of her own design.

Daryl saw the recognition cross his friend's face, and then the inevitable disappointment that drew all of Dwight's features downward and erased whatever else he might've been about to say. He frowned and shook his head, glancing pointedly at Daryl's neck once more. Then he clenched his jaw and made direct eye contact through snow flurries and dissipating clouds of smoke.

"_Shit_. So, what - yer back together again? After all _that_?"

His tone was presumptuous, and a little too smug for Daryl's liking. It grated on his nerves immediately and he had to fight not to become defensive as he returned the intent eye contact.

"'Course not. She's done with 'im - we're jus' friends."

Dwight laughed humorlessly. "_Friends…_ with benefits? Or is she keepin' you on the backburner till ol' Jimbo comes to 'is senses?"

Daryl narrowed his eyes and took a tight-lipped sip of beer. Then he muttered, "_Already_ came to 'is senses - that shit didn't last. Just like I _said_ it wouldn't."

Dwight inhaled a long drag of nicotine and tar, holding it for a second before releasing it from his smirking mouth. "Right. So you _want_ to be the fallback. Ol' reliable Daryl, at her disposal whenever she needs dicked down real good - "

"Shut the _fuck_ up," Daryl snapped, his voice coming out more growl-like than he'd intended. But his blood was boiling hotter than ever at the sound of his inner conflicts being vocalized by his closest friend.

Dwight was unfazed. He simply shrugged and took another long drag off his cigarette. Then he leisurely sipped his beer, scrutinizing blue eyes still set on Daryl, and after a long moment, he said, "When'd _this_ start up again? 'S that why you been so mopey the last couple a weeks?"

Daryl gritted his teeth and averted his gaze down to his boots, holding a cloud of smoke inside his lungs for as long as he could bear. When it finally poured out of his mouth, he lifted his eyes and met Dwight's expectant stare. "Ain't been _mopey_. She was at some college bar a couple weeks ago, got ditched by all 'er friends an' texted me. I thought it'd be good fer both of us if we talked. But…"

His voice trailed off and his eyes drifted downward again. Vivid memories of his and Beth's night together a couple of weeks prior flashed through his head and revived the palpable sparks of emotion that always came along with them. And, though he didn't want them to, so did the doubts. The questions.

What exactly _had_ he been expecting to get out of meeting her at that bar? Out of responding to that text message? Could he really justify his actions anymore? Could he really make the excuse that he wanted 'closure' or whatever the fuck else he'd found to explain his moment of weakness?

"So _she_ texted _you_, jus' _outta the blue_, an' after all that shit that was said, all these months - you showed up like a _dog_ on a _leash_…"

Dwight's tone was becoming condescending. And it only made Daryl angrier, because this _asshole_ had no _idea_ what went on behind closed doors, had no fucking _clue_ the kinds of things Beth had moaned and whispered and begged for. Dwight didn't know what the _fuck_ he was talking about - he didn't have to hear the soul-clenching hopelessness that drenched Beth's voice, didn't have to look into those big cornflower blues and try to say 'no,' didn't have to feel the inescapable pain and suffering that emanated from her every movement. He would never know how _agonizing_ it was to watch her suffer all alone.

No matter _how_ good of friends they were, Dwight just didn't understand the connection that Daryl and Beth shared. He never would. He'd never know every little detail, every painful lesion that had scabbed over and scarred and made them into who they were today. He could never comprehend the depth of Daryl's bond with Beth, nor would he ever understand why it was so utterly _impossible_ to break.

Because Dwight wasn't a selfish fucking _idiot_ like Daryl. He'd found Sherry and immediately realized what kind of gift he'd been given, and he didn't fuck it up for so much as a _second_. He met Sherry at a time when they both were growing, but luckily, they were prepared to grow _together_. And they did. And they flourished. They worked through every miniscule obstacle that presented itself, and they grew into a comfortable routine that left them both equally fulfilled in the relationship. They didn't have tons and tons of emotional baggage, family drama, and deep-seated insecurities to climb over. They didn't have nearly every odd imaginable stacked against them. They got together, they fell in love, they moved in with each other, and they got married. And now they were happy, planning for kids, setting their future in stone.

Meanwhile, Daryl was still navigating the intricacies of caring so deeply for someone that losing them felt like losing an actual limb from his body. Beth was damaged and weighed down with all kinds of unpacked baggage.

But _goddammit_, if she wasn't the most worthwhile person he'd ever _fucking_ met. Sometimes, he was almost certain that he'd be willing to spend twenty _years_ waiting for her if it meant he'd get to marry her and die by her side.

Dwight didn't know what that was like. He didn't know what _Daryl_ was like for the first forty years of his life, how emotionally stunted he was, how closed-off and distrusting he'd grown to be thanks to an asshole of a brother and an even bigger asshole of a father. Dwight didn't realize how _far_ Daryl had come since then - and that he'd only come that far _because_ of Beth. Dwight didn't understand that when Daryl fell in love, it was for _life_. That there _was_ no going back, no moving on.

He wasn't a dog on a leash; he was a comet stuck in orbit. Beth hadn't yanked him back in by the long rope around his neck; she'd gravitated him back toward her by the invisible pull within her soul. And he'd followed willingly. _Eagerly_.

Dwight would never _have_ to feel that. He was happily married and past the difficulties. He'd found his "soul mate" and made it work. He didn't understand what it felt like to cherish every moment with someone because it might be the last. He didn't have to fight for that place of honor in someone's life anymore. He didn't have a million and one mistakes to make up for, a billion hurtful words to take back and prove wrong. He didn't have a force field of scars and fresh wounds to fight through.

"Ain't like that," he said, his words emphasized by the clouds of cigarette smoke that surrounded them. "I care about her - _you_ _know_ I care about her. I ain't gettin' my hopes up or nothin', but she _needs_ me right now. I can't… _ignore_ her. I can't move on when it's - there ain't nothin' ta move on _to_."

He caught Dwight's brief, tight-lipped expression. Like he knew _more_ than Daryl did. Like he was some kind of veteran watching a novice make the usual rookie mistakes.

But then Dwight shrugged and ashed his cigarette, gazing down at the snow flurries as they hit the ground and melted. And his tone was surprisingly free of arrogance when he spoke. Far more empathetic than Daryl had expected, almost more than he'd been prepared for.

"She's always _needed_ you, man. Just like _you_ need _her_. But you both keep lettin' the other shit get in between ya… She _taught_ you somethin'. Whether you wanna admit it or not. She taught you _a lotta_ shit. I saw it, I watched it _happen_. That's why it's so hard ta watch this thing play out all over again. Yer both good people - _really_ good people. An' I think yer good fer each other, in a really _weird_ way. But… maybe - it might just not be the right _time_, ya know? You did a lotta _growin'_ over the last couple a years, and she… I'ono, man. Seems ta me like she's still _got_ a lotta growin' ta do. A lotta shit that you can't _fix_ for 'er. There's some battles she's gotta fight on her own. She can't depend on you fer _everything_."

Daryl tossed his cigarette butt to the ground with more force than necessary and grunted in clear disapproval. There'd been a time, not too long ago, when he had hurled the terms "codependent" and "needy" around while talking about Beth. It had been nothing more than another excuse to avoid confronting his own terrifying feelings of inadequacy. And he wasn't going to be allowed to forget it anytime soon, it seemed.

He glared at Dwight until the other man met his gaze and returned the steely stare with a knowing look that said, '_I hate to say I told you so, but…_'

"I've said a lotta shit I didn't mean. We ain't perfect, we ain't _like_ you an' Sherry. There isn't some _easy_ _path_ fer us ta go down. I'm all she's _got_ \- I can't just turn my back on her. I couldn't _live_ with myself," Daryl said. "Already can't. She's all I think about. I miss 'er too _goddamn_ much…"

He paused and his eyes flicked downward, watching tiny white puffs of snow hit the ground and immediately melt. His voice was tinged with shame as he quietly added, "_Fuck_, man... I _love_ 'er."

Dwight pressed his lips tightly together and tossed his burnt cigarette to the ground. He watched the glowing cherry quickly fade out and sighed, a sound that Daryl was all too familiar with. He could practically feel the disappointment filling the air around them, the loss for words or explanations or _logic_.

Then Dwight muttered, "I know ya do, man. Shit... I _know_."

But all Daryl could think was, _I'm not sure that you really do this time._

* * *

He was just starting to catch a buzz, sipping on his fifth beer while he sat at the bar, laughing with Dwight about one of the idiots they worked with. He was just starting to untangle his mind from the vines of _Beth, Beth, Beth_ that they'd been wrapped up in all day. And then he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket.

When he pulled it out and glanced down at the screen, his heart leapt. _Beth Calling…_

His mouth immediately went dry as he hopped up from the barstool and mumbled, "Be right back." Dwight's quizzical gaze followed Daryl through the bar and out the front door, but Daryl ignored it, walking as casually and quickly as he could until he'd reached the cold, quiet night air.

He finally pressed that blessed green button and put the phone up to his ear. "Y'ello?"

The first thing he heard was all the background noise - a lot of loud voices, drunken yelling and laughter, some whooping and hollering, and some stupid rap song playing way too loudly. Then he heard her voice, high-pitched and slurring half-drunkenly, nearly yelling over the music while also trying to stifle her sporadic bursts of laughter.

"Daryl!"

"Yeah - what's up?"

She kept breaking away and making comments to her friends, making it more difficult to figure out what she was trying to say to him. He was just relieved to know she wasn't calling him for help. At least he was pretty _sure_ she wasn't calling for help. She wasn't crying or anything, so that was a good sign.

But then she managed to get it together and focus long enough to ask him - _very_ loudly - an obviously _important_ question.

"Daryl - okay, _Daryl_. Would you - and take as _much_ time as you need, I want yer completely _honest_ opinion…"

His brow furrowed but he couldn't help smirking at the cute slur in her words. "Okay, what about?"

"Would you… would you rather fight _one hundred _duck-sized horses? Or _ONE_ horse-sized _duck_?! Okay, take yer time - but be _honest_!"

All the anxiety that had built up inside his stomach immediately dissipated and he relaxed, letting out a soft chuckle. He could hear her laughing through the phone and it sent warmth all through his body, even though he was standing out in the cold with no coat.

"_That's_ the question, huh?"

"Yeah! I _need_ yer opinion!"

He chuckled again and shook his head, pausing for a second and listening to her drunk friends arguing over something that sounded like "ducks" and "horses." _Fuck_, he wished he was there right now. He wanted to see how red her cheeks had gotten from the alcohol, what outfit she was wearing, and how she'd done her hair today.

"Alrigh', well - do I get a weapon? Or do I gotta fight 'em the way God intended?"

She giggled and it filled his ear, then his bones.

"God would _never_ intend for a duck to be the size of a horse, or a horse ta be too small ta ride - but yeah, no weapons. Unless you count yer _hands_ as weapons."

This time, _he_ laughed, smiling into the darkness while he stood outside by himself and pressed the phone closer to his ear.

"And I do," he quipped.

Another breath-stealing giggle.

He cleared his throat and said, "M'kay, I gotta say… the duck-sized horses. Jus' 'cause horses are pretty much harmless without their size. But also 'cause ducks are fuckin' _assholes_, an' I'm almost positive it'd _fuck_ me up 'fore I could even get one good hit in."

She laughed loudly and happily agreed, "Oh my _god_, okay - _yes_! That's what _I_ said! Ducks are one-percent feathers and ninety-nine percent pure _evil_ and _hatred_! Oh my - d'you remember that mallard that chased us fer like, _two_ _miles_ that one day?!"

A memory flashed through his head and he nodded, even though she couldn't see him. His smile softened and he responded, "Yeah - honestly, that was probably one a the top ten most terrifyin' moments in my _life_. It's a good thing you could keep up, 'cause I was fully prepared ta sacrifice you ta that bloodthirsty duck demon."

She laughed again and he could've swore the sound was single-handedly keeping his buzz going.

"Yeah, _right_! I was _two_ seconds away from trippin' you an' leaving you as a distraction so I could escape! He took that _whole_ loaf of bread right outta my hands, an' I swear ta _God_ he was eyeing my jugular next!"

He laughed and scuffed the tip of his boot against the ground, shoving his free hand into his pocket absent-mindedly. She got distracted and he could hear her yelling at her friends again, excitedly telling them that he had chosen the correct answer to her hypothetical question. Then there was some more whooping and hollering, a lot of laughter, and the music got turned up a little louder. And she was talking into the phone again, directing her question to him.

"So what're you doin'?"

She had to raise her voice even more to be heard and he was afraid she might not be able to hear him at all. So he spoke louder than usual but kept his eyes on the door of the bar, hoping Dwight wouldn't wander out with one of his signature looks of presumption and disapproval.

"At the bar with Dwight."

"Oh, cool - how's he doin'?"

"Good. Nothin' new. Him an' Sherry are tryin' ta get pregnant, I guess."

"_Aw_, that's so good! I'm so happy fer them! They're so good together, they'll make _really_ good parents."

"Yeah, they will."

She sighed audibly and his brow knitted together in confusion.

But then she said, "I wish you were here right now." The carefree joy in her voice seemed to slip away momentarily. "I was tryin' not ta text you an' bug you, but - sorry I interrupted you an' Dwight hanging out."

Her words, and the tone that permeated them, sunk into his skin like a million tiny needles. He felt that familiar stinging in his chest, the way his stomach flip-flopped. He wished he'd brought his beer outside with him.

"'S alright, didn't really interrupt nothin'. We're just shootin' the shit. Y'know how D likes ta bitch about work."

She giggled and his jaw unclenched, though he hadn't even realized he'd been clenching it.

"Yeah, he can talk, huh?" She joked.

He grunted, then asked before the courage could leave him, "Why you wish I was there?"

He could picture her cute little shrug in his head, the way her bottom lip would barely stick out in a half-pout and she would look toward the ceiling nonchalantly, slowly fluttering those long eyelashes.

The alcohol wasn't allowing her to sound the least bit bashful, though. "'Cause I miss you… You could come over here. If you want. If you ain't too tired when yer done hangin' out with Dwight."

He blinked and swallowed hard, a knot beginning to rapidly form in his throat.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. Say no - you're __**supposed**__ to say no. It was just starting to get a little __**easier**__. You could go home and probably fall asleep without barely even __**thinking**__ about her. _

But the voice of reason within him wasn't nearly loud enough tonight. The memory of how it felt to lie in bed with her, to feel her lips on his skin, to hear her soft voice in his ears and smell her familiar and comforting scent was too _fresh_, too _tempting_.

Those three intoxicating words hadn't stopped swimming through his veins, and he wanted to hear them again. So _badly_.

As coincidental as it may seem, she was like her own brand of liquor: she stung at first, pulling him in with the promise of what he knew she could make him feel, and then it was heaven - pure _bliss_. And then came the inevitable hangover. The dehydration and body aches, the physical pain and lack of a will to get up and do _anything_. The pang of a hole somewhere deep inside him that couldn't be filled, couldn't be remedied.

Then another day or two would pass and the craving would come back. The recollection of elation, the reminiscence of feeling indestructible. The deep, unavoidable desire to do it _again_. To recreate it. To _relive_ it. To find that feeling of pure bliss and invincibility and grasp onto it once more. To let it overtake him and wash out everything else.

He'd never gone the route of his older brother so he - _thankfully_ \- couldn't compare her to any sort of drug. But then again, alcohol was its own drug, he figured. And being with her felt like a level of inebriation that he simply couldn't reach with any other vice.

And who the fuck was he to try and lie to himself and pretend like he was actually _capable_ of turning her down? At this point, he'd walk barefoot to the ends of the earth if she asked him to.

He swallowed past the thick knot in his throat and tilted his head skyward, gazing up at the faintly twinkling stars beyond the brightly lit Atlanta skyline. His eyes set on the full moon and stared at it intently, all the while he was picturing Beth bathed in moonlight and grinning drunkenly.

"Where're you at? Brittany's?"

"Yeah. I can order you an Uber, if you need - "

"Nah, I've only had a couple beers. Dwight's gonna be headin' home soon anyway. Save me a drink, would ya?"

She giggled. "Well, there's _plenty_ ta drink, so it ain't goin' nowhere before you get here - but what d'you want?"

He smirked and his body suddenly felt weightless, like he was moving with _purpose_ now.

"Save me a shot a tequila. If it ain't that real cheap shit."

**to be continued...**


	11. the queen and i II

**the queen and i II**

Dwight already knew. It was evident on his face and in his scrutinizing gaze when Daryl sat back down at the bar with his phone shoved into his pocket. Dwight wasn't stupid, he knew there was only one person that Daryl would step outside to talk to on the phone. He didn't push it, though. He made his disapproval apparent and reminded Daryl that she definitely wasn't the _only_ woman who'd ever love him, and that he _could_ find that connection with someone else - if he tried.

Daryl shrugged it off and half-heartedly agreed just to avoid an argument, voluntarily covering their bartab and assuring Dwight that he and Beth were _not_ getting back together. That he was _not_ getting swallowed back up in that cycle of happiness, pain, happiness, happiness, pain, pain, pain, and more pain.

At least not anytime _soon_.

Dwight had already been planning on leaving soon anyway, so Daryl didn't even have to make an excuse to rush or suggest that they end the night early. It had just been the tell-tale look on his face, he supposed. The recognizable fidgeting of his hands, the way his foot anxiously tapped against the metal barstool. Dwight recognized all the signs. He'd put two and two together almost immediately.

Not that it really mattered to _him_. What difference did it make whether Daryl went home alone or went to see Beth for a couple of hours? It wasn't like it affected Dwight's night in any way.

Still, it didn't stop him from pausing outside the bar and placing his hand firmly on Daryl's shoulder, looking the slightly shorter man in the eyes and making an honest, heartfelt statement as flurries of snow fell around them.

"I mean it, dude - she ain't the end-all, be-all of yer _life_. There's plenty a fish in the sea. An' you can laugh at me all you want, but you _know_ I'm right. When yer actually _ready_ ta move on from her, then you will. But be prepared fer some serious _fuckin'_ heartbreak, 'cause that's what it's gonna take at this point."

Daryl sneered and grumbled, "That's what it's gonna take - ta do _what_?"

Dwight raised his eyebrows but his mouth fell into a frown, like he was watching a sad movie play out in real time.

"That's what it's gonna take fer you to accept the fact that yer _bad_ for each other. That she's got demons, an' they don't play well with yours. Man… I _know_ it's hard ta stay away. But sometimes, you gotta rip that Band-Aid off - jus' get it _over_ with. Before it wrecks you worse'an it did last time."

Daryl stood next to his truck and smoked another cigarette as he watched Dwight's SUV drive off into the darkness. With every exhale of nicotine and tar, he pushed out his friend's resonating words. The resentment grew larger and larger with each cloud of hot breath and smoke.

_Ain't no rippin' this Band-Aid off,_ he told himself. _She already left burn marks. We're inked in each other's skin... If anybody's gonna hurt me, I'd rather it be her than some other fish in this godforsaken sea._

* * *

Daryl was antsy and fidgeting for the entirety of the short drive to Brittany's apartment. His pulse rabbitted at the thought of seeing Beth again and he felt horribly impatient. The snow flurries stopped falling from the sky by the time he reached the apartment building, leaving small puddles and wet concrete in its wake. There were close to a dozen cars parked on the side of the street outside, and he wound up parking his truck in a narrow spot at the end of the block, forcing him to walk even farther to get to her.

His heart raced with anticipation the whole time, leaping up into his throat when he sent the "here" text and received three 'clapping hands' emojis in response mere seconds later. He imagined her opening the door and greeting him with a wide smile and a drink in her hand.

Instead, it was Brittany who answered the door. He felt a pang of disappointment when he didn't find the face he was expecting, gazing down at a girl who was just a few inches shorter than him. She was rail-thin with long, dark brown hair, narrow eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a spray tan bronze tint to her usually pale complexion. He'd always thought she looked like a younger version of one of his friend's wives - and similar to that particular wife, he'd always gotten the sense that she didn't _like_ him very much. Especially now, as he watched her face turn from surprise to confusion to obvious disappointment.

Nevertheless, she greeted him politely, the slur in her words barely noticeable, and didn't even wait for him to ask where Beth was before turning and gesturing toward the kitchen. "I saw her in there a few minutes ago. She's already drunk."

He nodded and mumbled a "thanks," then slipped past Brittany and into her loud, crowded apartment. He shoved their interaction to the back of his mind, trying his best to ignore the undertones in her facial expressions and the way she 'warned' him. What did it matter to him if Beth was already drunk? Like he didn't know that before coming over? He told himself that Brittany was kind of a bitch and that her disapproval didn't mean shit to him.

Despite being kind of a bitch, she _did_ have a nice apartment. It was more like a townhouse in the way it was designed, with the living room, kitchen, half-bathroom, and a small bedroom on the first floor, and then two larger bedrooms and two full bathrooms upstairs - a mirror image of the apartment next door, which sat on the other side of a thick wall. The floor design was more long than wide, leaving limited floor space in the living room and kitchen. Most of the open floor was between the two rooms, in what should've been the dining area. But this apartment was inhabited by college students, all girls in their early twenties who worked full-time or part-time on top of going to school and whatever else it was that twenty-something-year-old girls did. So they didn't exactly own a dining table, and the whole place was a bit… _cluttered_.

And it didn't help that the party had clearly been going on for a few hours already, leaving a lot of trash and general messes all over the place. Empty beer bottles, shot glasses, crushed cans, Swisher packages, crumpled cigarette packs, and a seemingly endless sea of plastic red cups. There were a couple of ashtrays, too, with the remnants of blunts and joints, as well as a tray on the coffee table that was covered in some very familiar white residue. The whole place was crowded with warm bodies, filled with the stench of alcohol and weed and sweat, the bass of rap and hip-hop songs thumping throughout the entire first floor.

When he finally squeezed through the numerous groups of twenty-somethings and made his way to the kitchen, he saw her. She was leaning against the edge of one of the kitchen counters, a red cup in her hand and blonde hair falling over her face. Her side was turned to him as she stared down at the phone in her hands, and he paused just long enough to take in the sight of her: a tight black shirt that hugged her hips and left a teasing few inches of midriff exposed, even tighter black jeans, and those high-heeled black boots that had been sitting on his living room floor not too long ago. She was wearing her hair down and he could see nearly every shade of blonde that was present amongst the silky waves.

He approached her and once he was a few steps away, she lifted her head and looked over, taking notice of him. Her face lit up and she grinned happily, and he immediately noticed how bloodshot her blue eyes were and how low her eyelids were sagging. Her shoulders were slumped and she was leaning heavily against the counter for support. But that didn't stop her from turning and stepping forward to wrap her arms around his neck and hug him tightly.

She was warm, _really_ warm. And suddenly, all of the anxious restlessness that had been clattering around inside his bones came to a halt. He hugged her back even tighter, breathing in the familiar and comforting scent of her conditioner and perfume. Her body was loose and relaxed, reminding him of a rag doll and making him wonder how much she'd drank to reach this point.

She hadn't sounded quite this drunk on the phone. It was barely past eleven, how long had she been throwing them back?

"You came!" She slurred, grinning up at him as she pulled back and gripped onto his arms for balance.

"Told ya I would," he said, studying her face curiously, gently grasping her elbows. She couldn't seem to focus her eyes on his and he glanced over to see her red cup was mostly empty of whatever clear liquid it had been filled with. "Did ya get my drink ready?"

She furrowed her brow in confusion for a second then blinked and giggled. "Oh, shit - I totally forgot! What'd you want? Tequila?"

He chuckled uneasily and circled an arm around her waist, letting her lean against him for support. What had it been, maybe thirty minutes since they'd hung up the phone? How had she forgotten so quickly?

"Yeah - what'd you drink? Did ya eat tonight?" He asked, leaning in and brushing a strand of hair away from her face, attempting to get a clearer view of her current state.

She rolled her eyes with a lazy half-smile. "_Yes_, I had McDonald's earlier. An' I haven't had _that_ much ta drink, I'm jus' really cross-faded." She giggled again and reached out to grab her red cup.

He watched her carefully, his smirk disappearing. "On what? Weed?"

She shook her head, draining the last of her drink before slopping the cup onto the counter. Then she drawled, "No - Mike traded me a Xanax bar fer my blunt."

Daryl bit his tongue momentarily, looking her up and down with a new realization. He knew that voicing his disapproval would only push her away, and possibly get him kicked out of the party. But seeing her like _this_ was painful. He had the irresistible urge to protect her, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her and ask her what the _fuck_ she thought she was doing, and how the _fuck_ she could think that acting like _this_ would make her situation any better.

But that was no longer his place. He had no right. And she would just pull away from him, cut him off like before. And then he would probably never see her again.

"Shouldn't be drinkin' on that," he muttered, surprised at his own ability to hold back everything he _wanted_ to say.

She shrugged and ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back off her face as she exhaled a deep breath. "Ain't drank _that_ much. Don't worry, I know what I'm doin'."

_Merle used to say the same thing..._ He shoved that thought away just as quickly as it had come.

He pursed his lips and grabbed her empty red cup, clearing his throat. "I know ya do. So how 'bout my drink? Where's that tequila at?"

Once she'd directed him toward the booze and he'd poured a few generous shots into the plastic red cup, he nonchalantly kept it clutched in his hand and close to him. She didn't seem to notice her lack of a drink and he sipped his slowly, loosening his arm around her as she stood up straighter and gradually pulled away from him to fully regain her balance. She moved slowly, like she was fighting lethargy.

"You got a cigarette?" She slurred, gazing up at him expectantly.

He nodded, glancing across the room toward the back door. "Yeah. Wanna go outside?"

"Yeah. I need some fresh air."

"Where's yer coat?"

"Don't need one - it's hot 'sfuck in here." She grabbed his hand and interlaced her fingers with his. Her palms were clammy. "C'mon."

* * *

The back porch was a lot quieter once they closed the door and sat down on the cold wooden steps, beneath an awning that had kept the porch dry from the recent rain and snow. The bass of the music inside still thumped steadily throughout the floor, but all the loud voices were muffled. They both took deep breaths of fresh air, sitting close together as their exhalations formed small clouds in front of them.

Daryl pulled out a cigarette and handed it over to Beth, lighting the end while she held it carefully between her lips. Then he pulled out and lit his own, scooting a little closer against her side. He'd left his coat in the truck, leaving him with only a long-sleeved flannel and his black vest, but the cold didn't seem to sting like it had before. And she didn't seem to notice it at all, pushing her hair off the back of her neck and stretching out her legs on the stairs, face glowing with perspiration.

"You gotta work tomorra?" He asked, eyes trained on her as he slowly inhaled a deep breath of nicotine.

She nodded and lazily turned her head to meet his gaze, sighing. "Yeah, an' then I gotta move on Monday."

"Already?" He asked.

"_Mmhmm_," she hummed, taking a leisurely drag of her cigarette and holding the smoke in her lungs. "Found a second job and a place I can afford." She exhaled a white cloud of smoke and hot air. "Daddy took pity on me an' gave me Maggie's old car, so I guess I won't be walkin' everywhere."

"Pity or not, that's a good thing," he muttered. "Shouldn't be walkin' everywhere by yerself anyway. Where's yer place at?"

She took a long hit off her cigarette and gazed skyward for a moment, as though she were struggling to do the math in her head. She took longer than usual to answer, but he watched her expectantly the whole time. Then she slurred, "I'ono - like thirty or forty minutes east a yer place. Think it's a li'l closer to yer shop than anythin' else. You still work at that one, don't you?"

She looked over at him again and he nodded. "Yeah. That ain't a very good neighborhood. Y'should get a big dog er a gun - somethin'."

She rolled her eyes and he felt a twinge of annoyance, so he quickly threw back a swig of tequila before hitting his cigarette again. She smirked with amusement, a long ash forming on her cigarette as it rested forgotten between her fingers. "I'll be fine, _Mr. Dixon_. I can take care a myself."

"Didn't say ya couldn't," he mumbled. He paused and took a drag, exhaling quickly. "You need help movin'?"

She shrugged her loose shoulders and stared down thoughtfully at the cherry of her cigarette. "Maybe… if yer not workin'."

"I can leave a couple hours early. Mondays are always slow," he offered. "Jus' lemme know."

_If you even remember this conversation come Monday, _he thought.

She hummed in acknowledgement and finished her smoke, tossing the butt out into the darkness of the backyard. As he tossed his own in the same direction, she leaned back against the stair railings and lowered her eyelids.

"Don't want you thinkin' I'm _using_ you… again. Or anybody else," she said quietly, eyes still closed.

He swallowed hard and clutched the cup in his hand a little tighter. He was realizing he'd _never_ escape all the hurtful words he'd hurled around so many months ago. And they'd never fade away from her permanently scarred mind. She couldn't forget them, so she wasn't going to let _him_ forget either.

That was fair.

"I _know_ you ain't ever used me. An' it don't _matter_ what anybody else thinks. Ain't none a their business," he said plainly.

A small, bitter, pent-up part of him wanted to throw the hurt right back in her face. He wanted to remind her that _he_ was the one who'd been taking advantage because _he_ was the 'old man who couldn't grow up,' as she'd so eloquently put it once upon a time. And at the end of the day, more people thought of him as the one using her rather than the other way around. 'Taking advantage,' they'd called it. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

But he pushed all that shit back to where it came from and locked it up tight. He took a long swig of tequila and let the fire course through him as it burnt its way down his throat.

And when he looked over at her again, she'd opened her bloodshot eyes and was gazing at him almost wistfully, a tired smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. His stomach flip-flopped.

The resentment, the hurt, the poison and razorblades that had resided on the tip of her tongue for the last year… it was all _gone_. For now. He could see it in her face, read it in her glazed eyes and hear it in her lazily slurred words: she'd succeeded, at least for tonight, in numbing her constant aching. She was inching closer to the edge of the faultline within her - the one that opened up into a bottomless, hollow pit of _not now, maybe not ever_. A pit that she was continuously filling with booze and drugs and sex and, as of late, _pills_.

Opening and swallowing it all up and closing again, over and over and over.

"Lemme have a sip," she said, reaching out for the cup.

He reluctantly handed it over, surprised by her request, and watched as she threw back a hearty swallow. She didn't even wince, and he could've _swore_ he could see that hollow pit opening up inside her with the tipping of the cup.

But he could only see it because it matched his own.

He couldn't leave her alone. Not when she was like this. No matter _what_ Dwight might try to tell him, no matter how much fucking _sense_ that asshole actually made sometimes.

"Brittany gonna care if I crash with you tonight?" Daryl asked quietly. "'Least till I can drive home."

Beth chuckled like he'd told a joke and shook her head, eyelids hanging heavy over bloodshot blue pools. "Well I didn't invite you over jus' fer a couple hours… I _missed_ you. I miss sleepin' next to you." The words poured from her lips, reminiscent and uninhibited.

A knot formed in his throat and he struggled to swallow past it. His empty fingers fiddled with a loose thread on the seam of his jeans. He wasn't sure he was nearly drunk enough to match her _softness_ tonight.

"Missed you, too… You want me ta take ya to work tomorrow?"

She nodded slowly and gazed at him like she was studying him, for some reason. He wasn't sure what she was looking for, but he was confident she wouldn't find what she wanted.

He was still a bit put off by how lethargic she was acting, moving, and speaking. Briefly, he wondered how the night would've ended for her if she hadn't called him. Was it the Xanax making her so nostalgic and easy-going? The booze? Or something else?

Did she _really_ miss sleeping next to him? Or did she only miss it when she was high and drunk and feeling particularly friendly? Particularly _lonely_? Was she just resorting to using him as another intoxicant, another drug to fill that hollow pit?

Did it really _matter_ anymore?

* * *

Back inside the party, one of Beth's friends wandered over to where Beth and Daryl were sitting together on the couch in the living room, squeezed in beside two other people that he didn't recognize. The red-haired girl swooped in, phone in hand, and took a group selfie with them. Daryl wasn't sure how to react so he gave a weak half-smile toward the phone's lens while Beth grinned and threw up double peace signs, eyelids hanging low over blue eyes. Then he waited for the girl to stop laughing with Beth about something-or-other and walk away again. He briefly wondered whose Snapchat story or Instagram feed that photo might end up on.

He nursed his cup of tequila while he sat on the couch with his arm thrown around Beth's shoulders, and she chatted happily and drunkenly with the people around them. A blunt was being passed around at one point but he turned it down, watching from the corner of his eye as she took two big hits off of it. Her eyes couldn't have become more bloodshot anyway. She was already melting into the cushions and against his side.

He took a long swig of his drink and pulled her a little closer.

Then the music was being cranked up, drowning out all the conversations and laughter that filled the apartment. He watched with narrowed eyes as a small group of six or seven girls - only two of which he actually recognized as Beth's friends, Brittany and Lauren - formed a circle in the open floor space between the living room and kitchen. And as the bass thumped through the walls and grated on Daryl's nerves, a rapper's voice poured out of the stereo speakers and the girls began to drunkenly dance together, some of them with cups in hand, all of them _way_ too drunk and giggly to be trying to shake their asses.

"_I love bad bitches,  
That's my fuckin' problem!  
And yeah, I like to fuck,  
I got a fuckin' problem!"_

But Beth was laughing and nodding her head along to the beat, and he could see her mouthing the lyrics lazily. Her body squirmed against him and he could feel her beginning to sit up and grow restless.

_As much as I love you, I'm __**not**__ gettin' up and dancing, _he thought, clutching the cup in his hand tightly.

To his relief, she remained beside him for the entirety of the song, quietly rapping along to the lyrics and laughing loudly at her friends' drunken antics. There were at least two or three people with their phones out, grinning and shakily recording the scene. He took a long swig of his drink and realized it was the last of his cup's contents.

As the song faded out, he leaned in close and tried to speak during the break in music, "'M gonna get another drink." She looked over at him and nodded in understanding, but as he leaned up and began to stand from the couch, a familiar tune hit his ears. And then it was filling the apartment. And his head.

Beth recognized it, too, because she immediately reached up and grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward her. He glanced over to see her standing up from the couch with him, using him as her point of balance, a grin on her face and a new brightness in her eyes. Then he realized that he wasn't going anywhere because she was now gripping his arm intently and urging him away from the couch with her, toward the dancing group of girls.

"_You used to call me on my cell phone,  
Late night when you nee-eed my love…"_

He hadn't ingested nearly enough tequila to block out the wave of nostalgia that washed over him, the sudden slew of memories and almost-forgotten emotions that flashed through his head in that moment.

The bed of his old pick-up truck, the bright Atlanta skyline, her flawless thighs beneath his fingertips. There was a soundtrack to his timeline of pain, and this song was one of the bloodiest tracks on that playlist.

The sharp edges of a long-buried hatchet began to slice at the inside of his skin, threatening to tear him apart where he stood. _Not now, _he told himself._ Maybe not ever._

She released him from her grasp and he casually drifted back as she wandered forward and clutched the hands of her good friends instead, dancing shamelessly. Something he, frankly, wanted no part of.

He watched for a second, barely allowing himself to nod his head to the beat. Even seeing her do the stupid little dance that went with the song was causing a surge of needles to rush down his spine and fill his chest. It felt like replacing a bad memory with a slightly shittier one.

The rusty remnants of pain were slowly ebbing outward, but his cup was still empty. He took the opportunity to slip around the group and into the kitchen, away from the gathered crowds of people and numerous Snapchat stories-in-progress. Away from the steady, never ending beat that threatened to drag him down Memory Lane. Back to the booze that awaited him on the counter.

* * *

There was a text from Dwight that Daryl hadn't noticed arrived until he was standing in the kitchen, idly checking his phone.

_Can't cover for you if you call in again on Monday. Joe's already irritated about yesterday._

He turned his phone off and shoved it into the inside pocket of his vest. _Asshole_. Then he swallowed down a large swig of tequila. The sting surged through him and made him shiver. He kept his eyes trained on Beth, watching her drunkenly dance and laugh and take ridiculous selfies with her equally-drunk "besties" from across the room.

Some song came on that he didn't recognize, something about a girl named 'Tatiana,' and Daryl was thinking about how he wished these new rappers would speak clearly so he could at least understand what the hell all these girls were giggling and bopping around to. But then he recognized the look on Beth's face as she paused her dancing and began to wander away from her friends, her eyes searching through the crowd for him. He quickly slipped past a few people and back into the living room, reaching her side with his plastic red cup still clutched in his hand.

"There you are!" She grinned, reaching out and grabbing his free hand. Before he could suggest that _maybe_ they step outside again, or even go find a quieter room, she was jerking her head toward the short hallway that led to the half-bathroom. "I gotta pee."

He nodded and wordlessly followed her as she pulled him along with her down the hallway. Another old habit, following her wherever she went like some kind of personal bodyguard. In actuality, considering her current state, he would've followed her wherever she wandered off to no matter what. He certainly hadn't come over here to hang out with any of these other people. He didn't even want to _talk_ to any of them, honestly.

While he stood outside the bathroom door and sipped his drink, Dwight's words resurfaced in his head. And he began wondering to himself if he really _was_ just a dog on a leash. Always at her beck and call. Always salivating at the mere _prospect_ of spending time with her. Always ready to pick her up off the ground and try to put the pieces back together. Always _consumed_ with the thought of her, the desire to be at her side, the _need_ to _protect_ her.

_Fuck 'em all, _he decided. _She needs me._

And yeah, he needed her, too. That wasn't even possible to deny.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom and turned to find him waiting for her, she smiled. She looked exhausted, nearly on the verge of passing out. She also looked high as a fucking kite. She was leaning heavily against the doorframe, eyelids drooping while she struggled to focus her gaze on him.

"Brittany said I could sleep in the li'l bedroom," she slurred, blinking long and slow.

He raised his eyebrows expectantly. "You ready fer bed?"

She defiantly pushed away from the doorframe and stood up straight, shaking her head. "No - why, are you?"

He shrugged and watched her carefully, her legs a little too wobbly for his liking. "I'ono, but ya look like yer about ta pass out any second."

She scoffed and reached out to swipe the plastic cup from his hand. He let her take it and tried not to visibly grimace as she threw back a swig of tequila. He quickly grabbed it back from her and stepped closer, letting her reflexively reach out to grab his arm and lean against him. The music was still bumping loudly from behind him, drunk twenty-somethings laughing and hollering at each other.

"Think you've had enough fer tonight, don't you? Yer already gonna have one helluva hangover fer work," he said, leaning down so she could hear him clearly.

She nodded and he felt relieved. He'd been partially bracing for her disagreement or frustration, but apparently, she was well past that point. There wasn't an ounce of confrontation left within her tonight.

As he gazed down at her face, he recognized the fond reminiscence returning to her features, the vulnerability plastering itself like a mask over the pain and anger and suffering. Or maybe it was pushing its way up to the surface from beneath the several layers of thick skin she usually kept over it. He couldn't tell for sure.

But she was staring up at him with that softness that never failed to pull him down into a place of comfort and solace. The raw and defenseless Beth he'd come to know over the last few years was looking at him - looking _through_ him. Appearing sporadically, briefly, yanking him in and refusing to let him get too far away. Pulling him back whenever he began to drift from her.

Her fingers wrapped loosely around his forearm and her other hand pressed flat against his chest, leaning into him. Her voice drawled from her chapped lips, penetrating his skin like a tiny switchblade.

"Yeah, but at least when I'm hungover, I'm not thinkin' about all the other pain."

He could feel the stutter in her breath, hot against his chin as she huffed out a humorless laugh and mumbled, "That shit hurts a _helluva_ lot worse."

* * *

He had absolutely no desire to do anything physical with her when she was so much more intoxicated than him. He was more than satisfied just to know that he could keep an eye on her through the night, and getting to wake up next to her was an added bonus. He wasn't even sure that he felt comfortable letting her kiss him in the narrow hallway, letting her push her body so tightly against his and breathe so heavily into his mouth.

But he let himself get a little… _carried away._ What was left of his tequila sat abandoned in its plastic red cup on the floor next to the bathroom, seeing as he needed _both_ hands to properly grip her waist and feel the bare skin of her warm back against his palms. The liquor was swimming through his head, making his blood race in his veins.

No, he'd had no intention of heatedly making out with her when she was in this state.

But then she was whispering against his mouth, mumbling into the skin of his neck, "I miss you, baby… I'm sorry. I'm so, _so sorry._ I wish I could go back an' fix it all... I'd give up _everything_ fer you."

He shushed her with his lips, but something scalding was rising up within him and he couldn't silence it.

He pressed his forehead against hers and lingered over her mouth, breathing out hoarsely, "'M sorry, too. I miss you every _goddamn_ day, I miss bein' with you - I love you. I _love you_, Beth."

She kissed him hungrily and he gave in, matching her need with an intensity of his own.

And when they finally broke apart and wandered into the little bedroom on the first floor, away from the noise of the party and the guests who didn't leave until nearly daybreak, Beth stripped down to nothing but her underwear - nearly tumbling over head-first in the process - and flopped down on the bed without hesitation. Daryl shook his head and locked the door behind him, shutting off the light and silently thanking whatever random urge had spurred her to invite him over, forcing away unpleasant thoughts about how she _could've_ passed out if he hadn't been here.

He undressed, leaving on his longjohns and tank top, and lay down beside her. She was snoring within two minutes of her head hitting the pillow, and he had to pull the covers out from beneath her so he could cover her nearly-nude form.

He threw an arm over her and drifted off to a light, uneasy sleep. He kept waking up every hour or so, lifting his head and watching carefully to check that she was still breathing. And every time, just before falling back to sleep, he'd silently wonder if she would even _remember_ those soul-sucking words she'd whispered against his lips.

Maybe he'd just been talking to a ghost.

**to be continued...**

* * *

**A/N: **Songs mentioned were "Fuckin' Problems" by A$AP Rocky, and once again, "Hotline Bling" by Drake.


	12. pictures

**A/N: **"Pictures" by $uicideboy$ ft. Maxo Kream.

* * *

**pictures**

On Sunday morning, Beth woke up with liquor on her breath and a lot of questions. She was confused by how naked she was, as well as Daryl's presence beside her. He summarized the last couple of hours that she was unable to recall, but she didn't say much.

His heart dropped a little when he accepted the fact that she had blacked out, and those words that had dripped from her mouth with heart-wrenching honesty had been nothing but Xanax and tequila and weed spewing out the same old sentimental bullshit.

She was irritable and cranky, crashing back down to Earth with a throbbing headache and an empty stomach. He threw on his clothes and watched her slink around, gathering up everything she brought for the weekend stay at Brittany's. Then they quietly slipped out of the apartment together, tiptoeing past sleeping bodies and scattered messes. On the way to his truck, she asked if they could stop somewhere for a quick meal and he happily obliged.

She was mostly quiet during the drive, but so was he. It wasn't until after they'd eaten and were already heading toward her workplace that he asked if she needed picked up after her shift. She shook her head and mumbled something about her dad picking her up since she would need to get up in the morning and begin packing the last of her things. Daryl merely nodded and reminded her of his offer to help her later in the afternoon - if she still needed. To his relief, she assured him that she would give him a call when it came time for her to start taking things over to her new apartment.

When he parked his truck outside of the little restaurant where she worked, she leaned over and pecked him on the lips, then threw her duffel bag and purse over her shoulder and climbed out of the seat. With a quick wave, a thanks for the ride "and everything else," and a promise to text him later, she slammed the door shut and walked off.

He watched her until he could no longer see her through the glass front doors of the building, and before pulling out and driving away, he turned his phone on and set it in the cupholder. His lips tingled from her brief kiss and his stomach was already churning uncomfortably with anticipation.

* * *

The rest of Sunday crawled by at an almost agonizing pace. Daryl busied himself with laundry and general tidying around his apartment, just for the sake of having something to keep his hands occupied until he could go back to work the next day. The continued rainfall diminished any plans he might've had for a relaxing bike ride. He tried his hardest to resist checking his phone every five minutes, but eventually he ran out of things to do and found himself lounging on the couch with the TV playing reruns while he scrolled through social media.

That was when he found two new pictures that Beth had been tagged in: one was the group photo on the couch, where he was very much visible at her side, and the other was a photo of a couple other people with Beth and Daryl clearly standing off to the side, close together and smiling. Beth had already 'liked' both photos. His heart leapt the slightest bit but he quickly exited the app and set his phone aside.

_It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean anything._

Around ten, Beth texted him to ask what he'd done all day and complain about how her dad was acting stand-offish toward her. Daryl responded to tell her that he'd gotten some chores done and tried to throw in some reassuring words about how Hershel was probably just stressed about her move. But she didn't want to hear it - or _read_ it - because she avoided the subject and threw out an "I miss you" that made his stomach clench painfully.

He fell asleep near midnight, struggling not to overthink everything, replaying her drunken words from the night before in his head like a comforting lullaby.

And though he only dreamt briefly, it was about her.

* * *

Work seemed to drag by on Monday. The rain had dwindled to sporadic drizzles of cold water, all hints of snow vanishing without a trace, and the sun was struggling to peek out from behind slow-moving puffs of gray. The wind was still chilly, but it was weak and only picked up during the brief showers that occured on-and-off throughout the day.

Daryl managed to resist sending Beth a "good morning" text until about ten or eleven, when he knew it was most likely for her to be waking up. But he didn't hear anything back for several hours, despite his consistent checking. If Dwight noticed, he didn't say anything.

Who was Daryl kidding - Dwight _definitely_ noticed. Nearly every time Daryl pulled out his phone and looked down at the screen. Dwight shot him side-eyed glances all day, slight frowns and lifted brows, grumbles of disapproval that went unheard over the constant roaring of engines and clanging of metal inside the large garage. Daryl chose to ignore it.

They didn't talk much throughout the day, not even during their usual lunch break together. And when they did, Dwight was just bitching about something Sherry and her sister were going through. Daryl barely listened because, admittedly, all he could think about was Beth. Even when he tried not to. Even when he shoved his earbuds in and forced himself to focus on the bike he was repairing, on the engine he was rebuilding, on the fucking _sandwich_ he was eating. But she kept popping up. His appetite was practically nonexistent as he repetitively pulled out his phone and checked for new messages.

_Fuck_, he was pathetic. Was this what being around her did to him?

By the time 3:30 rolled around, he'd convinced himself that he was just _worried_ about her. He was worried about her moving, about her relationship with her dad, about her current financial situation and - most of all - her _mental_ situation. He was still admonishing himself for not remembering to look at her thigh and check for new cuts when she'd been lying half-naked next to him. But it had been dark, and all he'd been able to think about was how _close_ she was, how _warm_ she was, and how absolutely _plastered_ she was - on a concoction of booze, pills, and weed.

And just when he was beginning to accept the fact that she wasn't going to text him back, that she didn't need his help and had _honestly_ probably just _forgotten_ about him, that he needed to focus on something else - _anything_ else… she texted him.

_Hey, sorry I didn't text back, I've been packing all day. You still at work?_

He tapped out a response and sent it in less than two minutes, hesitating momentarily on what he should say. He hated the way his heart raced whenever her name popped up on his phone, and thinking about how much he hated it made his stomach flip-flop angrily. He swallowed back the rising bile and subconsciously clenched his jaw when he pressed Send.

_Yeah but it's slow. You still need help moving?_

What he said wasn't even true. He and Dwight and the rest of their coworkers had a backlog of shit to get through on top of their ever-growing list of new jobs, and Joe was already sulking around the shop, grumbling about 'overtime' and 'lazy ass slackers.' They'd even taken a shorter lunch than usual for the sake of catching up.

Yet Daryl was having a _really_ difficult time prioritizing work over Beth. It just didn't seem _important_ when he knew that she needed him. When he knew that he had all these moments he _could_ be spending with _her_, that he may never get again. These moments he'd hungered so desperately for over the last several months.

He simply couldn't bring himself to give a shit about what Dwight or Joe or anyone else thought. All he fucking cared about was _Beth_. She was all he had the _capacity_ to truly care about.

He had to prove to her that he was reliable, that she could depend on him. He had a lot of shit to make up for. And step one was defining himself as an enduring part of her life, a pillar for her to lean on amongst the wreckage; proving to her that he was no longer a ghost, but a man. A _real_ man.

_If you're not busy. I don't want you to leave work too early or anything, I can probably manage the rest on my own._

_Not busy, don't push yourself. Save the heavy stuff for my truck. I'll be there in 30._

_Lol okay. Drive careful, the roads are still muddy._

* * *

She didn't have all that many possessions. It was mostly books and clothes, which she'd already hauled into the city and into her new apartment. He helped her load the few bits of furniture she had into the bed of his truck - a mattress, a bed frame, a dresser, a nightstand, a desk, a few bookcases, a small second-hand loveseat, a cheap flat-screen TV that had been in her bedroom, and a single small 'dining' table with a fold-out chair - and tied them down with his bungee ropes. All the oversized, oddly-shaped things that she couldn't fit into her little red Honda Civic.

It seemed Hershel wasn't feeling exactly _generous_ with the hand-outs after Beth decided to drop out of college and move into her own apartment. Daryl felt that was kind of wrong considering how much unused furniture resided inside the big farmhouse. But then again, he hadn't even had _this_ much help when _he_ was starting out - and he'd been even younger than her when he'd gotten away from his father and headed out on his own. Not to mention, Hershel had already been more than generous by giving her Maggie's old car with no strings attached, so it sort of evened out in a way.

She had the essentials, and anything else she might need, Daryl already planned on helping her out with. Whether she _wanted_ the help or not. There was no way in hell he was going to let her live in a shady neighborhood in the city without making sure she was all set up and _safe_.

Beth chatted happily during the entirety of both their trips back-and-forth. They worked together to maneuver the furniture from his truck into her new apartment, and on the second haul, they only needed half of the pickup's bed to carry her remaining furniture. She loaded the last few boxes into her Civic and said goodbye to her daddy while Daryl sat in his truck and watched in the rearview mirror.

There were tears rolling down Hershel's wrinkled cheeks, and when Beth turned around, Daryl saw tears pooling in her big blue eyes. But she was fighting them back. And then she was getting into her car and buckling up, and a few moments later, he was watching her follow him down the muddy road as they left Senoia and drove toward the Atlanta city limits. He tuned his radio to a heavy metal station and cranked up the volume, struggling to keep his eyes on the road ahead rather than Beth in his rearview.

The sun had already gone down long before they made it back to the farm for the second and final haul, so by the time they were pulling up to the apartment building with the last of her furniture and boxes, the moon was rising steadily in the darkened sky and the stars were beginning to twinkle to life one-by-one. The rain appeared to have finally stopped, leaving behind large puddles, dripping awnings, and wet sidewalks and streets. But the clouds were floating by quickly, as though they were fleeing the scene of a crime. It left a cold chill that rippled through the air and stung Daryl's cheeks, making him wish he'd worn something more than just his vest and long-sleeved shirt. He'd left work in such an antsy rush that he hadn't even grabbed his coat.

Beth was still optimistic and chatty as they worked together to move the last of her things into her new place. He couldn't help but feel a burst of hope, sharing her optimism for once as he saw the light in her face and eyes, heard the upbeat tone in her voice. Maybe this was a _good_ thing. Maybe it was the change she needed. And when she was feeling _this_ good, how could he not feel just as good right along with her?

Maybe that heart-wrenching confession that she'd mumbled against his lips during a hazy blackout had been nothing more than a shitty combination of tequila and sedatives making nonsense come out of her mouth. At least… he could _hope_.

She certainly didn't _seem_ like she was in constant, unseen pain as she fluttered around her new little home, scooting furniture into place and opening boxes and organizing, organizing, _organizing_. The place was already spotless and it seemed somewhat new, probably recently remodeled, from his estimate. New carpet, fresh paint, not a speck of dust in sight - a stark contrast to the outside appearance.

The building itself looked pretty run-down and the brick was painted a disgusting shade of yellow, somewhere between marigold and baby shit. And the neighborhood was sketchy, with flickering streetlights and neglected streets, sidewalks, and gardens. Several buildings along the block had sturdy black bars on the outsides of all the windows and doors. There was a complex just down the street that looked like it was riddled with old bullet holes. He wanted to ask how much the place cost exactly, but decided against it. She already knew it was less than ideal, and she wouldn't appreciate him pointing it out.

Time always flew when he was with her, and this occasion was no different. It didn't really feel like _work_ while he was helping her set up the living room and kitchen, assisting in sorting the boxes and organizing her extensive collection of clothes and books, volunteering to lift and move the things that were a bit too heavy for her to manage on her own. He didn't even pull his phone from his pocket once, not until it was nearly nine o'clock.

And when he did, he found a text from Dwight that had arrived unnoticed a couple of hours prior: _Thanks for the overtime, asshole. Hope you're at least getting your dick sucked for all this._

Daryl had the urge to roll his eyes as he darkened the screen and shoved his phone back into his pocket, ignoring Dwight's text. He knew he'd have to answer for skipping out early once he got to work the next day, but for this evening, that was the _farthest_ worry from his mind. Beth was all he could focus on.

When she was finally satisfied with the progress she'd made on unpacking and settling into the little place that was now all her own, she and Daryl plopped down on the faded loveseat and heaved a collective sigh of relief and satisfaction. And not long after that, she was turning on the TV and hooking it up to Netflix, flipping through to find a show they'd already watched a hundred times and asking what he wanted to do for "dinner."

Something about it felt so _natural_. He hadn't planned on staying after helping her with all the manual labor, but he also hadn't planned on leaving. Each moment was being played by ear, and he was doing nothing more than letting himself drift along with every ebb and flow of her perpetual tide.

And as she pulled out two packets of Top Ramen and looked to him with a grimace, he shrugged and frowned, shaking his head. He quickly pulled out his phone and opened the Domino's app.

"'M gonna order pizza. You want cheesy bread?"

* * *

He slowly realized that 'Beth's place' had an entirely different set of rules than _his_ place. Which had always been the case, considering her place had always been her father's house, so they'd abided by Hershel's rules - breaking some here and there, somehow always avoiding getting caught.

But in her little apartment, which was quickly filling up with her familiar scent and all the things that screamed _Beth_ at first glance, there was a new and indescribable comfort growing and filling the barren corners. It warmed Daryl from the inside out, left him at a loss for words when he watched her saunter into the bedroom and rifle around in a box of clothes. An empty pizza box sat on the kitchen counter, an old episode of _Family Guy_ playing quietly on the TV. Wordlessly, she changed into pajamas, and a few minutes later, she was returning to her spot beside him on the little loveseat, a small glass pipe and lighter in her hand.

He was silently thankful that it was weed and not alcohol this time. At least with weed, he didn't have to worry about being hungover for work in the morning. And neither did she. Plus, it felt somewhat _nicer_ to know she was high rather than drunk when she leaned into him and cuddled up against his side. Maybe it was the comfort he took in the fact that her inhibitions weren't affected in the same way, that it wasn't just lust or old habits causing her to relax against him. Maybe it was the strange yet reassuring emptiness that filled his head with every puff of the pipe, the euphoric light-headedness that reminded him that everything _could_ be okay.

Or maybe it was the way he could practically _feel_ the taut thread wrapped around their wrists coming back together, collapsing between them like a cat's cradle; the way that the pungent smoke around them slowly dissipated and left them molded into one another, two souls melting down and reshaping into one solid form. Maybe it was the blurred and sharp lines of their edges leisurely colliding, and the way they pricked the surface of her skin and caused her to pour herself out across his lap in a heap of softness, of nostalgia, of comfort and of _home_. Maybe it was all of that pent-up pain, that suffering, that longing and aching and incessant _need_ for something lost - something placed in _him_ \- that was slowly pulling itself out of her, through every pore and outwards across his every nerve.

_Maybe, _he told himself, _it was the love leaking out of her. Overflowing._

At Beth's place, she didn't have to ask if he was spending the night. And he didn't bother asking if it was okay, because he already knew the answer. That boundary seemed to be put behind them at this point. He didn't have to toe the line with unease anymore. It was beginning to feel more like a step forward.

They fell into bed together, full of pizza and cheesy bread and reeking of marijuana, all bloodshot eyes and tired muscles and sky-high minds. It was natural and without question when Daryl stripped down to his boxers and tanktop and crawled in beside Beth.

He was too tired to think about how bare she was, how tightly she was pressed against him, how warm her arms were around him. He was barely able to fight sleep for more than five minutes after his head hit the pillow, and her breathing steadied within seconds. They were both drained of energy and full of greasy food, and sleep settled down upon them like a heavy blanket.

He didn't budge the entire night, awaking with a jolt an hour before the alarm on his phone was set to go off. There was a loud banging from what sounded like the next-door neighbors, possibly on their front door or inside their apartment. Daryl squeezed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the noise, but it persisted every few seconds. Beth remained motionless beside him, lightly snoring.

His brain had woken up, though, and it rapidly went into overdrive with paranoia. By the time his alarm went off, signaling that it was time to get up and head to work, he had to pry himself out of Beth's tight grasp and _force_ his legs to carry him away from her dark apartment. The banging sound had stopped, but his mind hadn't. All he could think about was how badly he wanted to spend _every_ night with her - not for the sex or even for the companionship, but just to make sure she was actually _safe_.

* * *

Dwight gave him the cold shoulder all of Tuesday, poorly disguising it as "focusing on catching up." Daryl was perfectly fine with that. In fact, he preferred it. At least it was better than seeing the unspoken judgment in his friend's face, hearing the low tone of disappointment in his voice, the flicker of recognition at the unwashed and unchanged state of Daryl when he walked into work after driving there directly from Beth's apartment.

She was all he really cared to think about anyway. He was content with sticking his earbuds in and cranking up the music, imagining Beth's face and her light snoring and the way she'd nuzzled into his chest. His heart skipped when he remembered how her lips had lingered on his when he'd whispered goodbye, how she'd seemed to not _want_ him to leave. The hollow aching had throbbed painfully for the entirety of his drive to work, and it barely lessened as the day wore on.

And whenever someone interrupted him, forcing him out of his thoughts and away from the escape of his music and his fantasies about Beth, he snapped at them. Even when it was his boss, Joe. Daryl ignored the mutters and pointed glances from his coworkers. An hour after their usual quitting time, he decided he'd put in more than enough work and called it a day. He didn't bother saying goodbye to Dwight, but he did make sure to grab his coat on the way out.

Beth didn't text him until after he'd gone home, showered, and settled into his couch. As if she'd known he needed a saving grace, needed _her_. She asked if he was busy, and when he said no, she asked if he might want to pick her up from work since it was drizzling outside and her muscles were still sore from the day before - and she had no money for gas to fill the empty tank of her Civic. That was all the invitation he needed. Without hesitation, he asked what time she was off. And this time, he brought his clean work clothes along in the passenger seat of his pickup truck.

It was another night of escaping with each other, locking themselves up in their own little bubble. There was no question about what the plan was or whether he was spending the night or not. It was an unspoken agreement. Cemented by the softness in her voice as they sat close together on the couch and she mumbled, "I'm glad yer here. It's kinda scary stayin' in a new place all by myself."

And she didn't have to say it, but he could hear it: _It feels more like home when you're here. _Because he felt it, too.

When he was with her, he didn't even touch his phone except to check the time and make sure his alarm was set for work. She mostly did the same, except not really. Every half-hour or so, he caught glimpses of her intent blue eyes set on the screen in her hands, tapping and typing hurriedly, swiping and locking the screen before he ever had a chance to curiously peer over her shoulder or down at her phone. Was she texting her friends? Checking Tinder? Clearing meaningless Instagram notifications? Talking to another guy? The paranoia threatened to chew a hole through the lining of his stomach. He reminded himself that it didn't matter - _none_ of it mattered, _he_ was the one who was here with her, _he_ was the one she was spending her time with. _That's_ all that mattered.

The idea remained locked in place, made stronger by the way they spent the rest of the night together. Another shared bowl of weed, another episode of a goofy show, another cuddle session on the couch that led into heatedly making out. They didn't have sex, even though his cock was hardening and twitching beneath his jeans. She apologized and explained that she'd started her period, but he shushed her with his lips and drank in every kiss she was willing to offer.

He ignored the aching between his legs, grateful for the opportunity to explore her mouth and her bare breasts beneath her thin pajama top, even if it meant stopping his hands from drifting any lower than the waistband of her pants. He didn't need to have sex with her every time they stayed together - in fact, he took a little comfort in knowing that she _didn't_ want sex but that she _did_ want him to sleep beside her.

That _had_ to mean _something_… didn't it?

She normally wore contacts to compensate for her less-than-perfect vision, he knew, though it wasn't something that most people recognized. He also knew that she hated wearing her prescription glasses, and only caved when her eyes were feeling particularly irritated by the contacts. It felt like a different form of nakedness that she was allowing him to see when she took out her contacts and resorted to the square, black-rimmed glasses that she so despised in his presence. It was a sight he hadn't witnessed in countless months; one of the intimate moments that he'd nearly forgotten about among the mile-high pile of memories he had stored away from their relationship. Something that had become so routine that he'd barely noticed it after a while, and didn't even think about it until it was no longer there. Another faint reminder of a deep-seated comfort that was shared between them, unshaken after all this time. Like she was letting him see a hidden side of her, trusting him to keep the secret between them; allowing him to see no-makeup-not-trying Beth at her _most_ vulnerable.

Except, these days, she wasn't such the shy and modest Beth he'd fallen in love with years ago. He'd realized that even before losing her. She'd begun blossoming into her confidence, discovering her own assuredness of her place in the world - and, consequently, the beauty she possessed. Either that, or wasting nearly four years with him had caused her to simply stop _caring_ what other people thought anymore. Daryl wasn't quite sure which it was.

As they lay in her soft bed, warm bodies sunken into the mattress, thick blankets pulled up over their half-naked forms to their tightly-pressed shoulders, he watched through heavy-lidded eyes while the glow of the bedside lamp washed over them and she scrolled through her Snapchat feed. He found himself unable to do anything but admire her, and wonder what was going on in that complicated head of hers.

Then she was turning the selfie camera toward them, lifting her phone up and focusing the lens on their sleepy expressions with the pillows as their background. Daryl's arm was lazily resting over his forehead and his dark hair was obscuring his face, but Beth was in clear view with her long, blonde hair splayed out beneath her and square-rimmed glasses framing sleepy eyes, a smug little half-smile on her lips. At the same second that she tapped the Capture button, he reflexively moved his hand to cover his overly bloodshot eyes. He'd never liked pictures, especially when he wasn't prepared for them. And she wound up with a slightly blurry photo of the two of them - though his face wasn't clear, he was still recognizable close beside her.

She scoffed and giggled at the photo, but didn't ask to retake it. He couldn't help but smirk at the result.

Part of him _wanted_ her to post that Snap of them lying in bed together to _all_ of her social media, but another part of him dreaded the consequences if she did. Would she have to endure disapproving looks and unwanted advice from her friends like he'd been enduring from Dwight? Would it push her away from him, give her second thoughts and more doubts? Or would it mean that she showing him off, telling the world about their little secret, announcing him back into permanency?

He watched her type out a little caption: _"new apartment, who dis."_ Then she posted it to her Snapchat story - where something like 100+ of her friends, most of whom he'd never met, could see it for the next twenty-four hours.

And before they drifted to sleep a short while later, he made a mental note to himself to download the Snapchat app and reactivate his old account, hoping that Beth was still on his friends list so he could see that photo before it disappeared forever.

* * *

The next couple of days passed in a similar fashion. Dwight's shoulder grew a little less cold until he seemed to have gotten completely over his grudge on Friday. Daryl reckoned it probably helped that he'd stayed two to three hours past quitting time for the remaining days of the week to help catch up on all the backlogged work they had to do, allowing Dwight to go home on time after half a week of working late.

He knew Dwight wasn't really trying to tell him what to do when it came to Beth, and that he only got pissy when it began making Daryl apathetic about work and actually affecting Dwight's day-to-day routine. But it still felt like a little more than that to Daryl. Then again, when it came to Beth, it _always_ felt personal.

He'd barely spent more than a few hours _combined_ at his own apartment all week. He'd been sleeping at Beth's new place, swallowed up in her big bed, wrapped up in her small form. The pattern from Tuesday continued into Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday: he woke up in her bed, kissed her goodbye and forced himself to head into work, then he worked and daydreamed about her all day, then he headed home and showered and by the time he was dressed in clean clothes, she was texting him and asking if he wanted to come over and "hang out." And then he'd meet her at her apartment - usually arriving fifteen or twenty minutes before her little Civic came to a halt in its usual parking spot. (Thankfully, she made enough tips on Wednesday that she was able to afford half a tank of gas so he didn't have to force her to accept his money.) And, of course, she'd greet him warmly and ask him if he'd eaten yet and make a remark about starving, and then they'd go inside and she'd cook something small or they'd order some kind of takeout food (on _his_ card even though she objected to him paying), and then they'd smoke a bowl or two from her little glass pipe - or a blunt that one of her coworkers had given her as repayment for covering a shift - and they'd cuddle in her warm bed and drift into each other, falling into the irresistible routine of kissing deeply and caressing bare skin. They'd make out, hot and heavy, and he might slip his hand down and massage her clit until she was moaning softly into his ear, or she might wiggle her fingers beneath his boxers and stroke his aching erection until he came quietly into her hand. And then they'd fall asleep, cuddled up close together, to the sound of _Bob's Burgers_ or _South Park _playing at a low volume on her laptop.

He wasn't sure why she hadn't been drinking, but he wasn't about to question it. She seemed more like herself than she'd been in weeks. Or at least, the Beth he was familiar and most comfortable with. He figured she was too worn-out from work and unpacking and rearranging to do much else besides come home, make some more progress on unpacking, and relax. And admittedly, he _liked_ it that way. When he caught sly glimpses of her bare thighs as she crawled into bed each night, he saw old marks and scabs - but nothing new, no fresh cuts. And by the end of the week, he began to think that maybe she was too busy and exhausted to dwell on all the things that constantly weighed her down. Maybe she'd finally figured out a _healthy_ way to keep her mind preoccupied.

Or maybe, he almost _dared_ to think, his presence was helping her feel _better_. Could it be that, maybe... _he_ was the one capable of filling whatever huge, gaping wound it was that she'd been walking around with?

Could he be helping her to heal for once, instead of causing new pain?

He didn't know. And he had no expectation of finding a definitive answer anytime soon. But the way she clutched onto him tightly every night, curled into his side and nuzzled her face into his neck; the way she mumbled "I love you" like she couldn't hold it in, and asked him if he'd eaten and how his day had been; the way her lips lingered on his every morning, as though she didn't _ever_ want him to pull away… It was almost like she was _telling_ him something. It was like she wanted him there _all_ the time, like she wanted back what they'd lost so long ago. It was every missing piece that he'd been yearning for slowly falling into place around him, before him, _inside_ him.

There was never any question about it: at her side was _exactly_ where he belonged, and where he felt most comfortable. She'd filled a deep and gaping hole within him. She'd set up shop, taken residence, reserved every vacancy he had to offer. There was no room for _anyone_ else.

(Not that there ever really had been to begin with.)

* * *

Beth had to work an earlier shift than usual on Saturday, which meant that she and Daryl's little weekday routine had leaked into the weekend. Her apartment was finally fully unpacked, decorated with all her knick-knacks and paintings and posters and framed photos, every cardboard box emptied and thrown out, leaving a small living space that screamed _Beth_ at every turn. It was all pink and purple and yellow and music and old family pictures and porcelain horse figurines. It was cozy and inviting. And leaving had been harder than he'd expected when he watched Beth lock up around half past nine in the morning and kissed her longingly beside her car, gray clouds foreboding overhead.

The air was cold and sharp, and she was eager to get into the warmth of the driver's seat and head for work. Just before she shut the door, she looked up at him with those cornflower blues and fluttered those long eyelashes and asked, "See you tonight?"

And of course, he nodded confidently and flashed her a crooked smile. Then he watched her drive off down the street before getting into his pickup and rolling out of the small parking lot of the apartment complex.

It wasn't until he was stopped at the first stoplight that he realized he had a whole eight hours to fill. Eight hours of whatever he could do to pass the time until he was able to be with her again. So he used the time to catch up on some errands he'd been procrastinating - things he would've normally gotten done throughout the week, but that he'd been putting off for the sake of picking Beth up and spending every possible moment with her.

That's how he ended up in the Walmart a few miles west of her apartment. He wouldn't have normally gone to that particular location since it was pretty far out of the way from where he lived, but he'd wandered down there after grabbing a late breakfast in one of the many drive-thrus along the way, intending to pick up a couple new pairs of work pants and some other household items - like a second toothbrush that he could leave at Beth's place. And he figured it was close by, so there was no point in driving past and waiting to get to his own neighborhood or his usual Walmart.

He began to regret his poor timing while he was standing in the Men's Hygiene aisle, three pairs of brand new black jeans cradled in his arm along with two new toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste, eyes focused on the row of various body washes before him. A man's voice hit his ears, rising with familiarity above the scattered conversations of fellow shoppers around him and the constant stream of pop music playing from the speakers in the ceiling.

"Hey, Daryl."

He turned and straightened his back just in time to see Jimmy approaching from the end of the aisle, apparently having recognized Daryl in passing. _Why_ he felt the need to say hello, though, Daryl couldn't quite figure out. The sound of the other man's voice made his skin prickle with a million unseen pins. His heartbeat immediately quickened and something like nausea was beginning to bubble at the bottom of his throat.

Daryl looked at Jimmy quizzically, not even bothering at an attempt to hide his confusion as to _why_ he was speaking to him. They both knew what had happened, it should've been a silent passing and nothing more. He shouldn't have even made eye contact. What the hell did this kid want to say that hadn't already been said and done? Didn't he cause enough damage already?

"What?" Daryl snapped. He eyed Jimmy up and down, fighting back the twitch in his arm, the reflexive clenching of his fist at his side. His blood was boiling rapidly at the sight of the other man, at all the painful memories that merely looking at his _face_ brought to the surface of Daryl's mind.

He wanted to punch him. He _really_ wanted to punch him. It was a long time coming, after all.

But he didn't. Instead, he stood still as a statue and stared down at the kid - who was barely two inches shorter but, nonetheless, _far_ scrawnier - and listened to what he had to say.

"You, uh - how ya been?"

Daryl shrugged, unable to hold back the scowl curling his lip upward. "Alrigh'. You?"

Jimmy shrugged as well, but it was much more tense. He took a half-step back and cleared his throat. Daryl remained stoic.

"Good - good, I s'pose," the younger man responded, maintaining the faint confidence in his tone. Which told Daryl that this kid had something to say - something _specific_. He could already sense that this wasn't a 'small talk/let's call a truce' kind of confrontation. They were long past assuming niceties and civilities in one another's presence. Even though Jimmy was still making a half-assed attempt at it.

"So you an' Beth… yer workin' things out again?" He asked.

_There it is. What you really wanted to talk about. _The anger pulsed hard and lively along with the heartbeat in Daryl's throat. He swallowed hard and blinked, tried his best not to let the doubt show on his face.

His response was clipped and tense. "I'ono. What's it matter ta you?"

Jimmy shrugged indifferently and it made Daryl's blood boil all over again. The younger man glanced down awkwardly at his boots and scratched his brown-haired scalp as though he were taken aback by the slightly aggressive response. "It doesn't - I was' just curious, I guess. Bein' nosey. Just - kinda makes things _weird_… ya know?"

Every word that slipped out of his mouth grated _hard_ against Daryl's nerves, penetrated his head and remained there unwillingly. He tried not to mull them over, tried _really_ hard not to read into them. He wanted to turn and walk away, wanted to shove this scrawny asshole out of his way and flee the shitty little Walmart entirely, wanted to rush out to his truck and text Beth so she could laugh with him about this stupid dickhead and his unbelievable gall.

Yet he couldn't. He had too many questions. What Jimmy said didn't make _sense_. It urged an explanation, an elaboration on the omitted details. And he was speaking so fucking _casually_, so goddamn nonchalant and almost _smug_. Like he didn't _honestly_ care but he wanted to _pretend_ like he cared, just to make himself look valiant.

Like he had _any_ reason to give a shit about Beth's life, let alone to utter her name aloud.

The _fuck_ did he care?

Daryl's response poured from his mouth before he could stop it: "No, I _don't_ know. Can't see why it'd be weird since you _left_ 'er."

_Tell me why it's 'weird,' _he wanted to say._ What the fuck made you word it like __**that**__? Why do you look like you know something that I __**don't**__? Why the fuck do all the little __**pricks**__ your age act so fuckin' __**cocky**__, like yer all so sure as shit about yerselves and every stupid __**fucking**__ thing you do?_

"Well, yeah - I left her. But she's still _beggin'_ me ta talk to her," Jimmy said, his voice lowered as though he were sharing gossip, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth while a slight resemblance of pity drifted across his face. "I haven't texted her back in months, she deleted me off Facebook. I've tried to ignore her, I mean - I didn't delete 'er or _block_ her or anything. I told her we could try to be friends. I didn't want everything ta be all… _rotten_. I never _wanted_ any bad blood - between _anybody_. I didn't mean ta _hurt_ 'er like she says I did, but - "

"Bullshit," Daryl interrupted, the words bursting from his pursed lips in a low growl. "You knew exactly what you were doin' from the _start_."

_Yer a fucking pussy, _he thought. _Always makin' excuses, avoiding confrontation like the little __**bitch**__ that you are._ _A sad excuse for a man. If I'd met you five years ago, I'd have already whooped yer fuckin' ass __**and**__ taken your wallet. Mighta even let Merle give you some scars to show for it._

"_Not_ bullshit," Jimmy snapped back, raising his eyebrows and frowning slightly, his tone quickly turning apologetic. "I didn't know the… _whole_ story. Fer a _while_. And when I did - well, I tried ta do what I thought was _best_. Fer _everybody_. I _tried_ to end it maturely. But if she's still thinkin' that me an' her have a chance - "

"Why the _fuck_ would she think _that_?" Daryl growled, his eyes narrowing reflexively as he leered over the other man. "Wha' makes you think she even _wants_ that?"

But the words were still ringing in his ears. "_Begging me to talk to her"_ \- it was a lie, _surely_ it was a fucking _lie_.

Yet there was a part, deep down inside Daryl, buried amongst his shame, that wanted the answer. Even though he already _knew_ the answer. Even though it was the answer he'd already expected, already dreaded, already felt coming like the light rumbles of a far-off thunderstorm. It rattled his bones now, threatening a torrential downpour upon every paper house he'd been struggling to build. It quaked beneath his feet and foreshadowed the inevitable drop of his heart.

"She still messages me on Instagram every _day_," Jimmy said.

It was so matter-of-factly, so plain-faced and without emotion. And Jimmy's tone was so clearly on the edge of nervousness, with the obvious tentativeness of brutal honesty, that Daryl had no _choice_ but to believe it. He could read people - he could read _this_ _kid_ \- and what this kid was saying _wasn't_ bullshit.

_Fuck_. It _wasn't_ bullshit. Fuck, _fuck_…!

His stomach dropped farther and farther down toward his feet with every word.

"I only answered her once - just ta tell her that we gotta move on from each other - but she won't _stop_. Then I saw you guys in those pictures Brittany posted, and then I saw her Snapchat a couple nights ago - looked like you guys were layin' in bed together. So, ya know, I reckoned - I thought she'd finally stop _messaging_ me… y'know, if you guys are workin' things out or whatever."

Then Jimmy huffed out a humorless laugh and shook his head as he finished, "But she hasn't."

His brows were slowly knitting together as he frowned decidedly and squared his shoulders, appearing to be waiting for Daryl's reaction. Or for a resolution. Like Beth was some sort of puzzle that they were both trying to solve - or maybe a parasite that they were both struggling to rid themselves of.

He _never_ fucking deserved her. Why did she _ever_ care about him? What did she ever _see_ in him?

What did _he_ have that Daryl _didn't_?!

**to be continued...**


	13. on my own

**A/N: **"On My Own" by The Used.

* * *

**on my own**

It didn't matter. It didn't matter. It didn't matter.

It didn't _fucking_ matter.

(Except it did. It _really_ mattered.)

He didn't care. He didn't care. He absolutely did _not_ care.

He didn't give a single _shit_.

(Except he _did_. He cared so much that he thought his skin might begin ripping apart from the intensity of it. He thought the thousands of tiny knives penetrating his every nerve might finally slice through and tear him to shreds right then and there in the driver's seat of his pickup truck.)

His heart raced in his chest and he hadn't been able to slow it, hadn't been able to still the trembling in his hands, even as he left the Walmart and drove far away. Even as he put that side of town in his rearview mirror and headed back to his apartment. He couldn't shake Jimmy's words, couldn't stop replaying them in his head over and over, dissecting every sentence and analyzing every slight change in tone. He smoked cigarette after cigarette during his drive, and kept smoking as soon as he'd gotten home and stepped out onto the little balcony. It was the only thing that seemed to calm him.

He wanted to tell himself it was bullshit. He wanted to push it away and excuse it as an immature asshole trying to cause problems - out of spite, or jealousy, or whatever it was that drove assholes like Jimmy to lie about things like that.

But he couldn't.

His stomach was churning and flip-flopping, threatening to evacuate everything he'd eaten in the last few hours. His head was spinning and beginning to ache from way too many racing thoughts. And his legs were restless, muscles itching to move, to walk, to run, as though his body wanted to respond by fleeing rather than fighting.

Except there _was_ no fleeing from this. He stood on the balcony and stared out at the city, watched the few people down on the sidewalks walking beneath the early afternoon sun and the heavy gray clouds, and he began to accept the fact that he really only had two choices in this situation.

He could either confront her and ask for the truth… or he could ignore it entirely - pretend it never happened, act like he'd never even run into Jimmy at all, like he hadn't ever wandered into that particular Walmart at that particular time of day in the first place.

If he did the former, it might result in a fight. There would definitely be an argument, and he didn't doubt that she would get defensive. It might even push her away and ruin all the progress they'd made in the last week. And if he did the latter, he'd have to be okay with telling himself that Jimmy was lying. He'd have to accept, in at least _some_ way, that he trusted Beth implicitly, even after everything, and that he didn't _care_ what Jimmy or anyone else said.

But that would also mean being _willfully_ _ignorant_. And that had always been something that Daryl Dixon just couldn't do.

* * *

Beth didn't text him until halfway through her shift, explaining that work was insanely busy and she was struggling to keep up. By that time, he was sitting on the couch with his second glass of whiskey, and his fingers hesitated over the screen of his phone as he struggled to form a response. He was resisting the very strong urge to tell her about Jimmy, to ask for her side of the story. To ask _why_?

But he knew better.

Before he could manage a text back, she sent him another message.

_Brittany and Lauren wanna go to that Space Bar tonight. I think I might go. Would you wanna come with me?_

As soon as his eyes comprehended the words before him, his heart skipped. The aching that had been present in his gut all day throbbed with a lively pulse. He swallowed hard and forced his trembling hand to hold the phone steady.

Normally, he would be tapping out a quick and reflexive "_yes_," but it was mere hours after a troubling interaction with one of the many half-buried hatchets from their past, and all the questions and conflicts were still too fresh in his mind. He wasn't even sure if he could stop himself from bursting out with all of his concerns as soon as he saw her in person again. And that definitely wasn't the way he wanted to approach the situation at all.

Yet there was still that huge part of him that wanted so _badly_ to see her again. He'd already planned his whole day around her, his whole weekend. She was all he had to look forward to. But… the thought of seeing her face right now, of feeling her warm hand in his and seeing her innocent smile…

That look - like everything was back to _normal_ again. Like she was playing a fun game of "House" and he was just filling the role of 'the husband.' For now.

As soon as he texted her back, he put his phone on Silent and placed it face-down on the coffee table. Then he resumed his drinking and chain-smoking and TV watching, all the while struggling to ignore the constant aching in the pit of his stomach. And even more so, the constant nagging voice in the back of his head, reciting all his deepest doubts and fears. Questioning whether he was making a mistake - _another_ mistake.

_No, I'm not feeling too good. Think I'll stay home tonight. I'll text you tomorrow._

* * *

He wound up drinking until his head was spinning from more than just troubling thoughts, and by five, he'd fallen into a deep sleep on the couch with the TV playing at low volume and the sun setting outside. He didn't budge for a solid four hours, and when he did, he jolted awake and looked around in confusion. He was sober and his head was faintly throbbing, but after a long piss and a smoke, his head was right back to Beth and everything that had driven him straight through five glasses of whiskey in the first place.

It was too much. He didn't like _feeling_ all this shit.

What was even worse was that, when he finally picked up his phone and turned it over, he found no new notifications. No new texts, no calls, no messages of any kind. The last text he'd sent was 'read' a couple of hours ago. And that was it.

So maybe she didn't _give_ a shit if he was with her or not. And, most likely, she didn't plan her weekend around him, or even so much as a single day. As usual, he was putting _way_ too fucking much into this thing. He was _caring_ too goddamn much, forcing himself to try and be something that he could never be. And for what?

For a girl who didn't even want him nearly as much as she wanted another man?

_Fuck_. His stomach hurt worse the more he thought about it. He smoked another cigarette and scrolled through social media, searching for clues. But he found nothing. Then he struggled to eat a very bland sandwich before pouring himself another whiskey and settling into the couch.

But his foot wouldn't stop twitching, his leg wouldn't stop moving, and everything within him was screaming, _go go go_. He didn't know _why_. He just had to get _out_.

Maybe it was all the echoes and whispers trapped between the thin walls of his apartment, constantly reverberating out in ghostly recitation, reminding him that Beth had soiled every single inch of his home. And there was no way in hell he'd be able to stop thinking about her when every corner of his little apartment was laced in her presence.

He texted Dwight on his way out the door in a brief afterthought.

_Heading to the bar if you wanna come down._

* * *

Of course, Dwight had better things to do. He had a wife who wanted to watch movies and cuddle on the couch and _try for babies_. He didn't have time to come down to the bar and watch Daryl cry tears in his beers over Beth for the twenty millionth time. And Daryl couldn't really blame him. Who would want to share a beer with a sad sack like him anyway?

_It's a little late tonight, Sherry wants to stay in. Call you tomorrow?_

He didn't text back. He just shoved his phone into his pocket and ordered a second beer.

It didn't take much to get him close to where he'd been before passing out on the couch earlier. He hadn't eaten since that bland sandwich - though, admittedly, he hadn't had anything _close_ to an appetite - and there was still whiskey lingering in his bloodstream.

So when the jukebox got a little louder and the bar became a little more crowded with a rambunctious Saturday night rush, he was actually thankful for the distraction. It was one of those rare occasions where he was glad to have so many other humans around him, so much nonsense and noise, so much activity bustling around him. Something about it reminded him that life goes on - that it wasn't _impossible_ to keep going.

Even if he felt horribly _empty_ while doing so. Even if he felt completely _alone_ amongst the dense crowd of nameless faces and unfamiliar bodies.

Then his phone vibrated in his pocket. His hand clenched the beer bottle he'd been sipping from tightly and he told himself it was Dwight again, or someone else. But he was already expecting it when he finally pulled the phone out and saw the text. From Beth.

_Everybody's being lame tonight. I miss you._

His stomach knotted up tightly. Painfully. He clenched his jaw without realizing it and pushed away the rapidly forming images of Beth sitting at a bar, forlorn and lonely.

She didn't _need_ him. So why was she still pretending like she did?

He couldn't bring himself to unlock the screen, to officially open the text and leave it as 'read.' He didn't want to respond, but he also didn't want her to think he was purposely ignoring her. Not _really_ \- not yet, at least. He was still trying to figure out how to deal with it, how to process all the new information and fit it into the jigsaw puzzle of their relationship. The past few weeks had been too wistful, falling together _too_ well. He'd _known_ there would be some kind of catch to it, that there would be _some_ sort of downfall. But he hadn't predicted _this_. And he wasn't even sure if it _was_ this.

Was _this_ the thing that would be worth it? Was _this_ the thing that he was willing to risk all of their fragile-as-glass progress for?

How important was his pride this time around?

He thought he might find the answer at the bottom of his beer, but every bottle proved just as clueless as the last. Until he was sick of beer and telling himself that - _surely_ \- the answer would be somewhere within that amber liquid that beckoned him forward so welcomingly. Yet two glasses in and he still had nothing but questions, questions, _questions_.

A woman had sat down beside him and started talking to him. He wasn't really listening for a while until he realized she wasn't going away, and then she was offering to buy their next round and asking him where he was from and what his name was. She wasn't all that good-looking and her voice was hoarse, like she'd smoked too many cigarettes. And the dress she was wearing looked ill-fitted, and he didn't like the way her hair clung to her neck and her too-big forehead, giving him the impression that she was _greasy_.

Then again, he was silently comparing her to Beth the whole time. So, naturally, she'd never measure up. He wasn't _trying_ to - it just… _happened_. No matter how much he tried _not_ to do it.

He was struggling to keep his eyes focused on this nameless woman while she told him all about her ex-husband and her son who wouldn't talk to her. And when she asked if he wanted to step outside for a cigarette, he thought that might be a good idea because the cigarette would help him focus and clear his head, and the fresh air would help, too. Because, in his mind, he kept thinking about Beth and what she would be saying about this drunk lady who was so freely pouring out her life story to him at the bar. And he wanted to _stop_ thinking about Beth.

While he stood outside with this greasy-haired woman - whose name he hadn't caught and couldn't remember for the life of him - he chain-smoked three cigarettes and grunted his way through an entire conversation about 'toxic family members.' All the while, his eyes absent-mindedly scanned the flowing crowd around them, searching to no avail for a familiar face. _One_ familiar face in particular that he knew better than to hope for.

His stomach churned and flipped and he wished he'd brought a drink out with him. He reached into his pocket to pull out a fourth cigarette and that's when she leaned in, suddenly invading his personal space without warning, and he found himself inches away from her face.

These weren't the lips he was used to, it wasn't the scent he recognized. This wasn't the mouth or the face that he took comfort in, and it was nothing close to the place he wanted to be when he allowed himself to be so vulnerable. This wasn't the warm body he'd wanted, nor was it anywhere close to capable of filling the constantly empty place beside him.

She was unfamiliar and uncomforting, but before he had a chance to push her away or step back, she was closing the distance and pressing her chapped lips to his. And it wasn't Beth, but it was someone _wanting_ him.

God help him, but he _lingered_. For just the _briefest_ of seconds. Then the whiskey haze rapidly receded and he regained his bearings, opening his eyes and stepping back, separating his mouth from hers as swiftly as he possibly could.

When he looked down, he found a thin-lipped smirk and watery brown eyes staring up at him. She'd tasted like cigarettes and White Russians and some kind of cheap perfume that made him queasy. He tried not to be visibly disgusted, but it was a challenge at this point of inebriation. He could already feel his mouth turning downward into a hard frown, and his brows were knitting together.

She moved to step forward again but he shoved his hand out and stopped her, fingertips barely grazing the rough fabric on the front of her blouse while he took another half-step back and put more distance between them.

"Not interested."

He turned away and went back inside before she could form a response, and a few minutes later, he was paying his tab and grabbing his coat. He rushed out the doors and kept his head low, shoving his way through the slowly dissipating crowd until he was standing by his truck in the parking lot. Alone.

Finally _alone_.

* * *

He sat in his truck, still parked beside the bar, and smoked four more cigarettes in the dim streetlights, listening to the muffled sounds of the drunk crowd inside and the scattered pedestrians passing by. Thinking. Constantly thinking. He couldn't stop, not even when he wanted to. Not even when he tried to drown all the thoughts in beer and whiskey, tried to smoke them out with nicotine and tar and city smog. Everything reminded him of her. From the twinkling stars above to the empty passenger seat beside him.

Her text sat on his phone, unopened and unanswered. He kept clicking his phone screen: locked and unlocked, locked and unlocked, locked and unlocked. _Beth_. Nothing. _Beth_. Nothing. _Beth_. Nothing. His fingers itched to respond. He'd already composed fifteen different messages in his head.

There was a voicemail saved on his phone that had been there for… ages. _Too_ long. But it was like a security blanket for him. He couldn't bring himself to delete it. It was the only voicemail he had saved, always there for him to click on and play if he so desired. And every now and then, when he felt particularly weak and beaten-down and worthless, he'd give in to his pathetic little guilty pleasure and play it. He'd hold the phone close to his ear and sap every ounce of _Beth_ that old voicemail had to give him. He'd relish in the sound of her voice, in the hopefulness and the optimism and the love, in the soft giggles and the light-hearted tilt.

And sometimes, he'd pretend they were back there again - in a simpler time. In a time when he could've so easily fixed everything, when he could've kept her and kept her _forever_. If he'd have just pulled his head out of his ass.

During those little moments of pretending, inside the deepest parts of his most secretive fantasy, he would imagine that he'd _never_ fucked it all up. That she was still his, and vise versa. And that they were still happy, and that she'd be waiting on the couch for him as soon as he walked through the door of his apartment, wearing sweatpants and a ponytail and a smile. And that she'd been missing him just as much as she promised she always was.

But even at this level of intoxication, even on his _highest_ of Cloud Nines, he could no longer pretend. He could no longer lie to himself. Deep down, he knew that he had to accept it.

The Beth in that voicemail was long gone. And _he'd_ been the one to drive her away.

"_Hey, baby. I know yer prob'ly sleeping and I didn't wanna blow up yer phone with too many texts. But… I miss you. Like - a __**lot**__. You have no idea! Well, you probably have __**some**__ idea since I keep tagging you in stuff on Facebook. And… texting you... No, but seriously, I can't __**wait**__ till yer home again. We have so many shows to catch up on - I've __**tried**__ ta wait till yer back, but I __**might**__ have watched a couple episodes without you… Anyways, I hope you're ready to be squeezed to __**death**__, 'cause this body pillow really isn't cutting it anymore, Dixon. I haven't had a good night's sleep since you left… So if you didn't already know, I miss you. I really, really, __**really**__ miss you. And I love you. More than you could know. So, ya know… love you. Text me when you wake up. Oh, and don't forget: I love you, babe."_

* * *

He'd gotten all the way back home, stripped down and lying in his bed alone. He'd finally managed to stop the spinning in his head and still his restless legs. The last time he'd looked, the clock had read 1:48. And then he heard his phone vibrating noisily on the nightstand from a call, and there wasn't even a tiny part of him that wanted to resist the urge to look - to assure himself that it was exactly the name he was expecting to see on the screen.

Sure enough:_ Beth Calling..._

He couldn't have stopped his hand from reaching out if he wanted to, nor his thumb from sliding the green Answer button across the small screen. Suddenly, his heart was pounding and he felt _too_ sober.

"'Ello?"

Her voice filled his ear and sent a surge of warmth down his spine, immediately followed by an icy chill. It was her, but she was drunk. _Of course_. And upset. She was slurring her words and mumbling through a tear-filled knot in her throat.

"What - what're you doin', babe? 'M sorry, I didn't mean ta wake you up," she sniffled audibly and he felt his stomach clench.

He swallowed and leaned back against the pillow, phone pressed tightly to his ear. "Nah, 's alright - what's wrong? Why're you cryin'?"

She stifled a sob and responded, "I'm just - bein' stupid. I shouldn't've called you, but I'm not…"

"What?"

"I just feel so _alone_. I don't - I don't have _anybody_. Everybody's sick of my shit. And I can't blame them, but… I dunno how ta _change_ it."

_Fuck_, he couldn't stand it when she cried. It was the one surefire way to make him crumble into a heap of weakness. As if he didn't have a hard enough time saying no to her or retaining anything that might resemble a spine in her presence.

"What're you talkin' about? Where you at right now?" He asked, listening closely for background noise but hearing only silence and Beth's sniffling.

Her voice softened, becoming weaker and almost tentative. "I'm at home…"

It was at that moment that he realized he _definitely_ couldn't say no to her again. Not tonight. Not when she sounded like this, her tone making his stomach twist into knots of guilt, making him picture fresh cuts on her thigh in his absence.

He could forget about that stupid run-in with Jimmy. He could ignore it and push it out of his head entirely. He could pretend it never even fucking happened.

He _could_.

She explained softly, "I got in a fight with Brittany and - and everybody took her side. Nobody wanted me there anymore. So I left."

Despite his concern, it was way too late for this shit, and he was still too foggy-headed to comprehend the drama she was crying about. He wasn't nearly sober or awake enough to play Therapist tonight. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, grunting and shoving the blanket off his body.

"Left where? That stupid Space Bar place?"

"Yeah."

"Ain't that up by where Brittany lives?"

"Yeah, kinda."

"What - you drove yerself home? Like _this_?"

"_Please_ don't start with that, I didn't call you to - "

He sighed, cutting her off with a quick apology, "Nah, 's not what I meant."

He clenched his jaw for a second and swallowed back the words that had gathered on his tongue.

"_You_ never cared," she added, an edge of resentment to the statement. "You _still_ drive when you shouldn't be."

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

Then he grumbled, "So'd ya call ta pick a fight, or - "

"No." Her tone flipped to apologetic and pitiful like it was on a switch. "I'm sorry, I'll leave you alone. I shouldn't've bothered you."

_Fuck. Shut up, asshole. Swallow your fucking pride. Just this once - for a change._

"Stop. I ain't - I didn't mean none a that, alrigh'? You want me ta come over?"

"You don't have to. I wasn't tryin' ta call lookin' for yer _pity_ or somethin', I just… needed somebody. And I really miss you."

He licked his dry lips and rubbed at his eyes again, trying to ignore the aching in his chest at her pain-stricken words. He mumbled back throatily, "Miss you, too."

He glanced at the clock: 2:21. Then he briefly thought about waking up in his bed in the morning, cold and alone, facing a long and uneventful day without anything - or any_one_ \- to look forward to. The thought filled him with dread.

"You gonna be able ta stay awake till I get there? I gotta throw some clothes on first, might take me a li'l bit."

He could hear the small smile that was curling her lips upward on the other end of the phone, her tone instantly lightening.

"I couldn't fall asleep right now if I _tried_, Dixon."

* * *

The sky was clear of clouds or rain for the first time all week. The Walmart bag full of spare toiletries was still sitting on the floorboard of the passenger seat in his truck. For the first few blocks, he smoked a cigarette and listened to the wind and the city sounds and the crinkle of plastic on the floor as his purchases rolled around whenever he'd stop at a red light. But then his mind was sitting on idle too long, focused too heavily on Beth and the building tightness in his belly as he drove toward her apartment.

Once again, replaying that bullshit conversation from earlier, mulling over every single word that had drawled from Jimmy's mouth, examining every clue and every new piece of information. Yet still coming to the same conclusion:

He had to _forget_ about it. He _had_ to let it go this time.

He turned on the radio and cranked it up until George Strait's voice was filling his ears and pushing everything else to the far back of his mind. He chain smoked during the whole drive, letting the nicotine and the cool night air wake him up completely and clear the remaining haziness from his senses. By the time he reached her place, it was past three and his left hand was mostly numb from hanging out the open window for the last half-hour.

After parking in the small lot and walking to her door - passing a couple of particularly sketchy-looking guys on the way and remembering what part of town he was in - he knocked on her door and waited. He could hear music playing from inside and it sounded like more of that obnoxious shit all her friends listened to.

He wondered what _else_ had changed about her that he hadn't quite noticed yet. Months ago, she'd still been listening to indie and alternative and classic rock, with the occasional pop or rap hit slipped in. But it seemed that her music tastes had evolved just as drastically as her drinking habits during their time apart. Or maybe he just hadn't been paying close enough attention…?

She answered the door wearing sweatpants, a baggy sweatshirt, and a half-drunken smile. Her makeup for the night had been wiped away, leaving only smudges of mascara and eyeliner from recently crying, and her hair looked like it had been curled for the night out, but now it was thrown up into a loose ponytail with tendrils slipping out around her ears and on the back of her neck. The blue in her eyes was bright and lively behind her glasses, but not in the way he preferred. The spark in her gaze was from intoxication, not _genuine_ happiness.

Nonetheless, he was elated to see her. The relief washed through him and it felt like his entire body was relaxing all at once, as though he'd been subconsciously tensed-up all day until the moment he was with her again. Suddenly, anything Jimmy might've had to say was a distant memory, completely forgotten in the moment. Completely meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

Her smile grew wide as she gazed up at him, soft pink lips curving up into her cheeks and sending a flicker of excitement to her heavy-lidded eyes.

"You made it."

**to be continued...**


	14. reckless abandon

**A/N: **"Reckless Abandon" by Blink 182.

* * *

**reckless abandon**

It was like… being _home_.

Everything that Daryl embodied was everything Beth sought out when she desperately needed comfort. Maybe it had been the other way around at one time, but that time was long ago, a memory she could no longer recall.

Sometimes she thought he might still need her in the same way she needed him, but he'd always do something to prove her wrong. He never failed to make her feel like she had never been anything but a curse on his otherwise peaceful life.

But he could _see_ something in her. Something that no one else could seem to see. She'd thought Jimmy might have seen the same thing, for a short time. But just as quickly as she'd reached out and felt her fingertips grazing the familiar tendrils of something akin to her soul, he had yanked it back and hidden it away. He'd locked it up and shoved her far from him. And she'd been left with that same empty ache - the deep loss that Daryl had left her with, like having stitches ripped out of a barely-healed wound. Like losing something that you weren't sure had ever really been _yours_ to begin with.

Except this was worse, because she'd hurt someone else in the process of attempting to find happiness for herself. And not just someone, but _Daryl_. The only person who'd been there consistently for the last four years, the only person who'd seen her most hideous side and still refused to turn away. The only person who knew her, _really _knew her - inside and out - and still _wanted _to know her.

Sure, she'd _tried _to hate him. She couldn't even count all the fights anymore, all the pointless arguments, the yelling matches that took them around in the same circles over and over and over again with no goddamn end in sight. There'd been numerous times when she'd managed to convince herself that,_ this was it, this was the last straw, he's hurt me enough._

And then he'd come back around, or they'd find their way back to each other (like it was meant to be). And he'd look at her with those ocean-deep eyes, drowning her in the empathy of his unspoken grief and suffering, and she'd _feel _him.

She could feel him with her in every step, every moment; there were times when she could hear him in her own _voice_, he'd become so impossibly embedded into her life and into the very _core _of who she was as a person.

And she couldn't stop the overwhelming rush of _love _she felt for him. Every time, just from the sight of his face. She could _try _to hate him all she wanted, but it never worked. It never stuck.

And then they'd find that comfortable place again. They'd fall back in like they'd never even left, and he'd wrap his thick arms around her and hold her against his broad chest and she could feel his pulse thrumming against his throat and she could taste the inescapable _need _in his mouth. She'd feel it in every thrust, in every buck of his hips and every gentle squeeze of his fingertips. She could hear it in his guttural moans and soft grunts.

_I need you. I love you. You need me. This is where we're supposed to be. __**This **__is true love._

She could hear it because something inside her was repeating it back to him, and she had no power to silence it.

There was always a part of her crying out, begging herself to stop, reminding her that he was the only one who could bring out the very _worst _in her. Reminding her that he'd _hurt _her, that he'd left extra-large scars that never seemed to heal. Reminding her that she'd never been so _dangerous _before, that she'd never been capable of such things before him.

But _Jesus Christ_, their bodies fit together so perfectly. As if they'd been _made _for each other.

He might've been the only one that was able to bring out the most destructive side of her, but he was also the only one who could make her feel truly _safe_. Sadly, not even Jimmy had been able to make her feel that. Though she'd never admit that aloud.

And as far as where she and Daryl had ended up, after _everything… _Well, she wasn't even sure who was to blame anymore. They'd both hurt each other equally. They'd both made their own fair share of mistakes. And they'd both crawled back, time and time again, begging on hands and knees with cheeks drenched in tears, _pleading _for forgiveness. For_ one. more. chance._

How many more chances did they have left? How many times could they keep picking at the same scabs, reopening the same old wounds and bathing in the blood that seeped out, before one of them finally walked away and said, _enough is enough_?

Every single thing about them had been utterly imperfect and completely inopportune. They'd grown and intertwined together like vines along an abandoned building, sprouting leaves where leaves weren't meant to grow. Feeding on each other, soaking themselves in the same patch of soil and weaving their roots together, sapping one another of vital nutrients while still reaching for the warmth of the sun. They'd become the very definition of _toxic_.

Yet every time they tried to pull apart, that invisible thread that connected them wrapped itself tighter around their wrists and _yanked _them back together. Neither of them could seem to figure out how to untie the knot.

And sometimes, she didn't even _want _to.

**to be continued...**


	15. hurt me

**Trigger Warning **for self-harm and suicide idealization. And just general angsty and depressing shit.

Chapter title: "Hurt Me" by Juice WRLD.

* * *

**hurt me**

Beth knew exactly what she was doing. But she had no desire to stop. That was part of the reason she kept convincing herself that she was evil, an abomination, a truly selfish disgrace of a human being.

A _succubus_, as Daryl had so eloquently put it at one time.

She'd always felt like he was leading her somewhere and she was merely along for the ride. She wasn't even sure where he was taking her until she'd diverted the trail and found her own way in the dark, turning around to find that he'd disappeared along the way. Maybe she'd been leading the whole time after all.

Had she actually chosen the path? Had she been the one to make the decision to be this person she'd become? Did she _have_ the ability to lead anything or anyone? Had she ever? And if she did, why did she use it this way? Why would she _ever_?

She didn't know for sure. Probably never would. But now she was willfully giving up her power. She was reaching out and taking his hand, and she was allowing him to lead her once more down a dimly-lit path full of twists and turns. And she was waiting.

For the inevitable. For that fork in the road that was bound to appear. She was waiting to see which side Daryl would take, which of those two paths he would lead her down. Because there were only two ways they could end, only two ways they'd _ever_ ended.

They were doing the same macabre dance they'd been trapped in for years. Except she no longer had the energy for it. She was _tired_. Her feet were sore and she was sick of dancing. And she wanted to lie down, to feel safe for once. She needed to rest.

But more than that, she needed to feel a little less alone. Because the loneliness was becoming stifling; it was growing into an overwhelming mass of torture and grief that constantly fought to consume her. And the only thing that seemed to push it out anymore was alcohol, nicotine, drugs… and Daryl. _Always_ Daryl.

Because, for reasons she couldn't fathom, he'd waltzed back into her life and slipped right back into the place he'd occupied for so many years. As if he'd never left. And who was she to push him away? He offered her a direction to follow, and that was what she craved most. What she _needed _most. Yet she could see the resentment in his eyes, the pain constantly etched into his features whenever he looked at her.

She'd hurt him. She'd scarred him for life.

But he'd scarred her a long time ago. He'd hurt her over and over and over… and over… And then someone else came along. _Jimmy_. And he'd filled all the cracks that had been forming within Beth's soul. He'd started to help her forget how hopeless Daryl had made her feel. Jimmy, in an inexplicable and almost immediate fashion, had started to put her back together; he'd started to make her feel whole again. Like she could be who she'd always wanted to be. Like she could be happy - truly _happy_ \- for once.

And then, just like that, he'd changed his mind. And there was nothing she could do to change it back. Nothing she could do to bring _him_ back. She could no longer find that sweet boy who'd promised to treat her how she'd always wanted to be treated, who'd comforted her and shown her what love could really be.

No. That boy was gone. He was disgusted by her. He would never look at her the same.

Just like Daryl.

So she was alone again. But this loneliness was deeper, darker. It threatened to swallow her whole. It threatened to strangle the very life from her small body. It told her that everything was her own fault, that she was alone because she was despicable and unbearable. It told her that this pain would never lessen because she had done too much damage and brought a tsunami of bad karma down upon herself.

It told her that she deserved to be alone, and more than that, she deserved to _feel_ how alone she was.

When she kept herself busy, she didn't feel quite so alone. That was one of the biggest reasons why she was perfectly willing to work two jobs. It gave her less time to wallow in her own misery, kept her hands and her mind occupied, gave her something to wake up for and something to stay alive for. In fact, sometimes when she was at work and caught up in the hustle and bustle of her coworkers and customers, she forgot that she'd ever been lonely to begin with. She would smile and laugh and joke just like she'd always done, she would actually feel hungry and enjoy the food she ate, and the constant pain in her chest would lessen just enough that she didn't notice it anymore.

But as soon as she'd leave and find herself sitting in the darkness of her bedroom - and now the darkness of the empty little apartment that was all hers - surrounded by silence and the ghosts of all those who'd left, the loneliness would come crashing down upon her head. It attacked from all sides and engulfed her. At times, it seemed to fill her nose and mouth and lungs like salty seawater, starving her of oxygen and threatening to drown her in the abysmal depths of her own remorse.

The only thing that helped her breathe in those moments was the sickly sweet marijuana smoke that she would inhale until her head was floating above the clouds, or the bitter taste of hard liquor and beer that helped to numb her tongue _and_ her aching chest, or the white and blue pills that would put her head above the clouds and make her conscious weightless.

Even then, there was a point where she would crave the closeness of a warm body - someone to wrap their arms around her and hold her close. Preferably Jimmy's. But as of late, it had been Daryl's arms snaking around her small frame.

Although she sometimes still thought of Jimmy, still wished it was _him_ next to her, still imagined it was him clutching her tight against his slender form and murmuring into her neck. But he didn't want her anymore. Daryl was the only one who could still see any trace of good in her, he was the only one who still wanted anything to do with her. Jimmy would never come back, he'd never accept her in the way Daryl did. No matter how much she wished and prayed that he would…

She fucking _hated_ herself for those thoughts. But she fucking hated herself anyway, so what was the difference? She couldn't help how she felt. She'd never been able to control it, despite all the guilt that ensued. Why would that change now? And if she were to be completely honest… she was utterly fed up with feeling ashamed for those things she couldn't control. She was sick of apologizing for her emotions, for bearing guilt over her inescapable desires and needs.

She was infuriated by the way she felt, but even more infuriated by the way it made _others_ feel.

She couldn't figure out if she was angry at herself for becoming this person - this person she'd _never_ been and never _wanted_ to be - or if she was angry at Daryl for _making_ her this way.

Maybe it was a little bit of both.

Sometimes, a rage brewed to life somewhere deep down that frightened her. She didn't know where it had come from and she didn't know where to put it. It wouldn't dissolve like it used to so many years ago. No, it was here to stay now. It had begun as a formless glob and slowly calcified into hardened rock, growing and filling her whole body with a red-hot anger that desperately wanted to escape. It weighed heavily in her chest at all hours of the day, sometimes growing soft and manageable when she was too high to see straight or too drunk to walk. But it was always there waiting for her when she woke up, solid as stone and heavier than she could ever remember. It would slip out at times - a rude remark here, an inexplicable urge to hit someone there, an unnecessary kick to a wall or a chair every now and then. But it could never be satiated.

There were times when she felt like burning the whole world down just to watch the flames and laugh. Those were the times that scared her most. Who had she become? And when had she stopped recognizing herself?

Everything had melted together into one big, angry, sad blur. She'd turned into a whole different person. Just like that.

There was the girl she'd been and the woman she'd planned to become… and then there was the woman she _had_ become. And they were all vastly different people with very little in common.

Every waking moment spent sober and alone was torture. On the outside, she smiled and laughed and offered optimism whenever she could (because that's who Beth was, that's who Beth Greene had _always_ been, and she couldn't bear to bring others down with her stupid problems). But on the inside, she was either screaming and ripping her hair out and furiously clawing at the walls of her own mental prison, or she was sobbing and weeping inconsolably while curled into a tight ball within herself. But no matter what, she was _always_ thinking about dying. Sometimes, it felt like she was already dead. If only her stubborn heart would just stop beating already.

Oh, how peaceful and relaxing was the thought of death; like a long, endless sleep that she would never have to wake from. In the darkness of death and non-existence, there was no one to hurt her, no one to admonish her, no one to be disappointed in her. In that darkness, there was no pain... There was no happiness either, but that seemed like a fair trade. Happiness never lasted anyway. It only ever ended up making the pain worse.

A long time ago, she'd believed in something better after death. (But she'd also believed in happy endings, she'd even believed her daddy could stay sober for the rest of his life, so obviously she was stupid back then.) She'd been so sure there was a Heaven and a Hell, she'd had faith, she'd believed in something greater than herself. She'd been convinced that once her time came, she would walk through some beautiful set of pearly gates and reunite with her mom and big brother and all the other loved ones she'd lost to death.

But nowadays, she was more doubtful than anything. And when she thought about it, she decided that she didn't _want_ to see Momma and Shawn again, or anyone else. They'd be disappointed that she'd gotten to live while they hadn't, and they'd be angry that she'd wasted her life. And if she actually mustered up the courage and killed herself, she might be sent down to the fiery pits of Hell to suffer for eternity. Although, at this point, that seemed fair. Not to mention, it didn't sound so much different from living. At least in Hell, she would _know_ it was for eternity, and she wouldn't be left waiting with a naive hope for something that was never coming.

Now she was pretty sure there was nothing. And no _one_. No God, no Heaven, no Hell. There was no such thing as 'true love' or 'meant to be.' There was life and suffering and little glimpses of hope and love before more suffering and then the inevitable release of death - sometimes peaceful, more often violent and/or painful. But nothing else. She was convinced that if there _was_ a God, it was no god _she'd_ want to meet. She couldn't fathom why _any_ being would create humanity just to sit back and watch nearly every single human suffer for living. She'd never _asked_ to be born. And she'd certainly never asked to survive the accident that should've killed her. Especially not when it meant two far more worthy people had to lose their lives.

Her daddy would be sick and ashamed if he knew what her mindset was truly like these days. At least, he would be if he could stop drinking long enough to notice.

The worst part was that she was fully aware of how fucked up she'd become. Yet she couldn't seem to do anything about it. She hadn't seriously thought about suicide since her little attempt in high school, and the scar she toted around for it had always been more than enough to remind her of why she wanted to _live_. Though it also reminded her of one of the many reasons why Maggie wanted nothing to do with her or their drunken dad. Sure, Beth had dropped into little pits of darkness occasionally over the last few years, when things with Daryl got particularly difficult and piled on top of all the problems within her family. When she felt overwhelmed and aimless.

But she'd always been able to pull herself out (with Daryl's help). Even when she'd sunk so low as to resort back to the terrible habit of self-harming, he'd always been the one to convince her to stop. And he'd given her so many valid reasons to stop - to stop for _good_.

After everything that had been said and done since then, though... Well, those reasons were nothing more than dust in the wind anymore.

The pain of losing Jimmy, of having to completely resituate her entire life all over again after such a brief time of real happiness, had sent her hurdling head-first back into all of her worst habits. The rage and the grief and the self-loathing and the constant _agony_ would sizzle inside her veins, and she could never find anywhere to put it, no way to let it out.

The only thing that eased the suffering was running a razorblade across her thigh, slicing open her skin and watching the blood pool at the surface. It left her with sore scabs and a red thigh afterwards, and her jeans would rub against the scabs and irritate them. But it always seemed worth it. Because in that moment, when she would open her flesh and watch the blood escape, it felt like all the anger and perpetual sadness was leaking out of her. Slice by slice. Drop by drop. And the high it gave her was a sensation that could never be replicated by booze or drugs; like the physical pain was erasing all of her internal agony, like her head was clear and _free_… just for a few seconds.

The pain also felt like self-punishment. She told herself that she was simply giving herself what she deserved for being such an awful person; that these cuts were the embodiment of all the mistakes and hurtful words that played inside her head on a never-ending loop. She needed to _see_ the physical wounds that she felt within her soul. She needed to have a real source of pain instead of all that heavy, invisible weight that filled her chest.

The cuts and the blood and the scabs were _real_. They were hers, and they were the only thing in her life that she could truly control. Others may be able to hurt her, but _no one_ could hurt her like _this_. No one would ever be able to hurt her as badly as she could hurt herself.

Beth knew that the loneliness was trying to kill her; it was gnawing at her, eating her alive from the inside out. She could feel it. And nighttime was the worst. Lying all alone in a cold bed and a silent room with a spinning head or an aching thigh, falling asleep only to dream of _him_.

The dreams were probably the most agonizing part. She kept dreaming that Jimmy had come back to her, pleading and apologizing on bended knees. Or that he'd texted her or called her or fucking messaged her back on Instagram. But then she would wake up and check her phone and find… nothing at all.

In fact, he hadn't responded to her in weeks. Nearly a whole month. Even though he'd seen the messages.

And she'd have to remind herself that he _didn't_ _fucking want her_. No one did. She was damaged goods. She was a pathetic, selfish, broken slut with nothing left to offer.

Yet Daryl kept coming around. Sure, she'd opened the door, she'd invited him back into her life in the first place. But had she actually expected him to come back? Maybe a little. Like this, though? No, not really. Not after everything that happened and _how_ it had happened. She'd been so certain that their bridge was burnt to ashes. But she'd been unable to stop herself from reaching out, from _trying_.

She hadn't planned on having sex with him or delving back into… whatever it was they had between them. She'd just genuinely wanted him back in her life. Because it felt like she had no one else, and whenever she'd felt like that, she'd always had _him_ to turn to. She missed her best friend, the only person who really knew her inside and out, the only person who could tell her what she needed to hear.

Admittedly, she missed all of him. Especially the way she felt at home in his arms; how she could always fall back into him and be assured that it was where she belonged. Even if she didn't actually belong there.

Daryl felt _safe_. He felt like home.

And the sex was impossible to turn down. They'd become so comfortable and had taught each other so much over the years. Between the sheets of their beds, their bodies had grown together like vines. And every time felt better than the last, every time was like they'd made an island of the mattress and were enveloped within their own little oasis. Even after all these months apart, even after she'd shared her bed with someone else for what felt like both a lifetime and a fleeting moment. Sleeping together again had felt no more than natural. Inevitable. Like there was a magnet between them that wouldn't allow them to remain too far apart at any given time.

Like they were completely incapable of ever being _just friends_.

No, she hadn't expected him to ever want to see her again. But he had. And he still did. That night at the bar had been a one-off thing, fueled by whiskey and heartbreak and a deep pit of loneliness. She hadn't thought he'd even read her text, let alone that he'd show up at her side. Yet it had unfolded into another long road of their same old habits, as if the routines and the muscle memory were unavoidable.

He kept texting her back. He kept answering her calls. He kept listening to her stupid drunken ramblings. He kept being kind and understanding and comforting. He kept showing up. He kept staying over. He kept making _promises_. He kept dragging her deeper and deeper down into the warm, soothing sea of his love. And his lust.

Why, though? She still couldn't figure it out.

It was the same pattern as every time before: the trying, the happiness, the new start. And then the comfort zone, where old habits die hard. The inevitable downfall or betrayal, a slippery slope that never failed to drag them into pain and resentment. And then they'd both bring up all the old shit and keep digging deeper and deeper until they were standing in their own graves, screaming across piles of rotting soil. And the pot would call the kettle black - _and a stupid whore_. And all that love and lust that had built up over the previous weeks or months would reach its boiling point. And it would erupt in a fury of flames and scalding words, where they would both walk away with broken hearts and bellies full of hatred.

Rinse and repeat. Until your relationship is so bleach-stained that you can't tell what color it had ever been to begin with.

She knew that this routine was just as predictable to him as it was to her. That he had to be blind - or just _willfully_ _ignorant_ \- not to recognize when they were falling into meaningless old habits. Yet he didn't stop.

And neither did she.

Why couldn't they learn when to call it quits? Why couldn't they learn to say no to each other?

Most of all… why would he want anything to do with her? When he _must_ know as well as her that they would never work? That it would only end in the same heartbreak and tears and hateful remarks as it always did? No matter how good the sex was or how nice they were being to one another? Why couldn't he accept the fact that they were poison together, that any relationship they attempted to have was doomed to fail? That she would be alone for the rest of her life because she would never be good enough for anyone, least of all him?

Maybe he had somehow managed to improve himself and grow out of his toxic beliefs during his time without her. Maybe he wanted to change for her, for something better. Maybe he thought he could be different, that _she_ could be different with his support. Maybe he believed they could move on and create something fresh, even in the wake of all her unforgivable mistakes.

Maybe he thought she could be better. Maybe he thought she _wanted_ to change.

She hoped he didn't think that. Because he was going to end up awfully disappointed.

Just like all the times before.

* * *

It was stupid. It was so fucking stupid. The whole night had gone so wrong and Beth wasn't even sure where exactly it had started. She'd thought she could have a fun night out at a new bar with her friends, drowning her demons in booze and sex, drinking and dancing and flirting until she felt invincible. But everything toppled one-by-one like a string of dominoes.

At first, she'd thought Daryl would tag along and be her companion for the night. She figured they could have a good time out with her friends, getting nice and drunk, and then he would take her home and they'd have sex and he would sleep over again.

He'd been staying over every night since she'd moved into her new apartment and surprisingly, they'd been getting along really well. No fights, no arguments, no hurtful remarks. She wasn't sure how much longer it would last, but she wasn't going to turn down his presence in her new place. He made the scary little apartment feel safer and more like home. So she'd expected a quick "yes" in response to her invitation. What else could he possibly have to do on a Saturday night anyway?

But he didn't want to come out with her tonight. He claimed he wasn't feeling well, said he'd "text her tomorrow."

Which was fine, obviously. She didn't really care. Just a little bit (_was he actually sick or did he have something better to do?_), but not really. Not enough to be upset or anything. He wasn't her boyfriend so his life was his own business. They weren't together anymore. She had no right to be upset. Or even disappointed.

All this meant was that she'd have to find someone else to entertain her. Because she most certainly didn't plan on sleeping alone tonight. She didn't shower and shave three different body parts and curl her hair and get all dressed up just to walk into an empty apartment and take off her own clothes and crawl into a cold bed at the end of the night. Quite frankly, that would've been a waste of makeup.

She didn't plan on resorting to whatever half-cute guys would be at the Space Bar either. So after Daryl texted her back and she took the hint that he wanted to be alone for the night, she opened Tinder.

There was a guy named Dante that she'd been talking to for the last week. He was good-looking in all his pictures and he seemed fun. She hadn't even hesitated to swipe right once she saw his photos and read his bio. He said he was former military, new to Atlanta after having recently moved down from Virginia for a job offer, never married and no kids. He was older, mid-thirties. Not like she'd ever minded an age difference. (In fact, ever since Daryl came into her life years ago, she found herself gravitating towards older men - with the exception of Jimmy, of course.) They flirted back and forth several times a day, and he'd asked her out at least twice already. She'd been busy, though. A date with a new guy from Tinder was the very least of her priorities at the moment, especially since she'd been spending the last few days with Daryl.

But tonight, she was willing to go through the process of awkward-turns-sensual that would be necessary. It wouldn't be as easy and gratifying as sleeping with Daryl, but it was the next best thing.

She sent Dante a message and asked if he'd like to join her and her friends at the bar. He agreed immediately.

In person, Dante was cute enough, with dark hair and a broad frame and shiny white teeth. Handsome even. And when he smiled, she could see dimples hiding behind his full beard. His voice was deep and had a certain flirty and enticing tone that sent blood rushing between her legs whenever he leaned in and spoke close to her ear, which he had a tendency of doing in the loud bar. He towered over her and she liked that - she liked feeling small, feeling defenseless yet protected at the same time. And when he set his intense gaze on her, she could feel his big brown eyes raking her up and down, as though he were secretly undressing her. She liked that, too.

Nothing attracted her to someone more than knowing they desired her. And this guy _definitely_ desired her.

After a couple hours of heavy flirting and lingering touches, a lot of shared jokes and a little getting to know each other, even dancing together, her confidence had soared and she'd grown optimistic. He kept showering her with compliments and she couldn't resist letting him in closer. He kissed her in the corner booth after she told a stupid joke and his beard tickled her face, but the kiss itself sent tingles of ecstasy all through her body. Maybe the night would turn out better than she'd originally expected. She could hope.

But seven shots and four beers (and a couple lines of coke) in, Beth found herself arguing with Brittany. And Lauren took her side, like she always did. And Abby jumped in to defend Brittany, and then the whole goddamn group was telling Beth that she was being drunk and stupid and overdramatic and that she needed to go home before she said something that she would end up regretting. Beth had no choice but to heed their advice. Maybe she _was_ being drunk and overdramatic. It wasn't like that was anything new for her.

Luckily, Dante had been in the bathroom for the argument, so he hadn't witnessed it. She was grateful for that because she really didn't want to experience anymore humiliation than she already had.

Her friends remained in their corner of the Space Bar, lit up by blinking green and yellow lights, while Beth stomped off to pay her tab and leave. She pulled out her phone, desperate for someone to vent to that knew how Brittany and Lauren and Abby could actually be - someone who would understand. Without thinking, she texted Daryl.

"_Everybody's being lame tonight. I miss you."_

As soon as she hit Send though, she felt stupid. She shoved her phone back into her purse and ordered two more shots from the bartender.

If she was sober enough to feel regret, then she was still too sober.

Dante emerged from the hallway that led to the restrooms and spotted her across the bar, smiling and walking over to join her. She waved him over with a forced smile and hoped that he couldn't tell how upset she was. She partially wished she could tell him what happened, but she didn't want to seem like a drama queen on their very first night out together.

She was a cool, chill, mellow, laid-back girl who liked to have fun and go on adventures. Not an angry, heartbroken mess. Not the shattered shell of a woman who cut herself and fought with her friends over stupid shit. That's not who she was around new guys. That's not who she wanted to be.

That was what she enjoyed most about guys like Dante, the few truly nice guys she met off of dating apps. Every new guy was a clean slate: she could be whoever she wanted. She could highlight all her best features in her Tinder photos, she could list all her best qualities and personality traits in her bio. She could present herself however she felt was most appealing. She could leave out all the grimy shit, like her past and her scars and her countless mistakes. She could be nothing more than fun and flirty and carefree with these men who'd just met her, these men who liked what she advertised and swiped right in hopes of being noticed by such a beautiful girl. She could hide her anger and her grief, she could shove all of that down and let the few good parts shine through. She could make them believe that she was worthy of affection and love.

Because they didn't know her or her past. So she could be herself. For once. She could be a Beth that men wanted to know and needed to love. She could be… something close to normal.

Her anger and frustration receded as soon as Dante approached and snaked a thick arm around her waist. He leaned in, filling her nose with the delicious scent of his cologne. The smell reminded her of a cologne that Daryl used to wear whenever they'd go out to nice restaurants; he'd worn it every time they went out to a bar together during the first several months they'd started hanging out. It sent a slew of memories flying through her head and she had to quickly push them away and focus on Dante.

_Everything_ reminded her of Daryl. Ever since he'd slithered back into her life - and her bed - she'd been unable to keep him out of the back of her mind. He seemed ever present. She didn't _want_ to miss him, yet more often than not, she did. She really did. Having him back at her side, back in her arms, back between her legs… it had sparked something to life all over again. And she couldn't stop herself from craving his companionship, the familiarity of his presence, the comfort of his voice and his touch and his closeness. The reassurance that he knew her, _really _knew her, and still wanted to listen to her.

Even right now, she wished it were him beside her. But then again, she didn't. Part of her feared that he would've taken Brittany and Lauren's side and contributed to telling her how drunk and stupid and _overdramatic_ she was being. At least she knew Dante wouldn't do that.

Only because he didn't know her well enough yet.

He asked why she was leaving and she shook her head, laughing it off and making an excuse about how it was getting late and she had to work tomorrow. He groaned in disappointment and pulled her closer against him and she was about to ask him to come home with her, even though she didn't think she really needed to ask since she'd assumed it was kind of a given. But then he was frowning and telling her that he had to go home too, because he had to be up for work in four hours. And how he wished he could take her home and "finish the night off the right way." He promised he'd make it up to her the next time they went out and she simply shrugged, nodding and agreeing.

Outside the bar, he kissed her for a second time. He squeezed her hand and flashed her a pearly white smile and asked her three times if she was sure that she was okay to drive home. That kind of annoyed her but at the same time, it was endearing in a way.

She assured him she was fine and promised to text him as soon as she got home. And at half past midnight, she watched him drive off in a shiny new Mercedes.

A few minutes later, she climbed into her shitty old Civic and made the drive home to her dark, empty apartment. She drove slower than usual, trying to ignore the alcohol swimming in her head. She kept glancing at her phone, hoping it would light up with a text from Daryl.

But it never did.

**to be continued...**


	16. save me

"Save Me" by XXXTENTACION.

* * *

**save me**

Beth drove so slowly that it took well over half an hour to get home. But the apartment didn't _feel_ like home when she stepped through the front door. There was the faintest trace of Daryl's familiar scent lingering in the air to remind her of his absence. Other than that, it was just cold and quiet.

She cranked up the thermostat first, then rushed to the bathroom to relieve the pee she'd been holding in for the last ten minutes. After that, she kicked off her shoes and began stripping out of her clothes. But the silence was becoming deafening and she didn't like hearing the random yells and laughter and arguing from the street and parking lot outside. She grabbed her Bluetooth speaker and turned on some music, cranking it up until it was bouncing off the posters and pictures that adorned the walls.

She breathed a little easier once she'd changed into comfy clothes, free of her contacts and her makeup, glasses on and hair thrown into a sloppy ponytail. And she'd sobered up just a bit, which was probably for the better. Even though there was no real reason to not be hungover tomorrow. It was her only day off from both jobs and she had zero plans. At this point, she didn't even know if Daryl would want to come over. He'd left her text on Read well over an hour after she'd sent it.

What if she was left to sit around her desolate apartment all day, with nothing to keep her company but her own thoughts? She wasn't sure she could handle that. She didn't feel like smoking herself to sleep or trying to watch TV. Getting to sleep tonight would be challenging enough. She wanted to keep her buzz going. She was too restless to relax, to allow herself to fall back into the sadness that loomed heavily behind her.

She quickly turned up the volume on the speaker, 21 Savage's voice filling all the emptiness around her, and grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on her kitchen counter. A year ago, she might've been blaring some indie band or a classic country artist, but nowadays all those songs just made her sad. The upbeat yet gritty rap and hip-hop music that she'd never much cared for (and that Daryl absolutely despised) had grown on her over the last several months. Her friends had always listened to it, but it wasn't until she started hanging out with Jimmy and being exposed to all of his favorite music that she started really enjoying it. She didn't even stop after he left - dozens of his most-played songs filled her current playlists. And it had become a sort of comfort to her, something she could listen to that actually improved her mood. Something that made it easier to pretend she was okay. Something that admittedly reminded her of Jimmy, but also made her feel like… a different person. In a good way. The person she wished she really was.

She poured a shot and downed it, barely tasting the liquid that had once made her wince. It slid down her throat and sent tingles of warmth through her core.

The fear that had been hovering over her head faded almost instantly.

A moment later, she plopped down onto the couch with a beer in hand, picking up her phone. A text had arrived a few minutes earlier, while she was taking off her makeup. But to her disappointment, it wasn't from Daryl.

_Did you make it home, beautiful?_

Dante. She'd forgotten to text him when she got home. She sent back a quick "_Yeah, just got home. Thanks for coming tonight, it was really fun._"

She took a long sip of beer and checked her social media apps: Snapchat, Facebook, Instagram. Lauren and Brittany had posted plenty of Snaps of all their cute outfits and how much fun they were having. And on Abby's Instagram, she'd posted a group photo of all of them - except Beth, of course. The caption read: "_Girl's Night! #noboysallowed #strongindependentwomenonly_."

Beth rolled her eyes and scrolled past. But it struck a nerve. Her stomach wrenched painfully and she took another gulp of cold beer. She got a random urge and scrolled back up, tapping on the Comment button and leaving a comment that said, "_just at me next time_." Before she could second guess her choice to post it, a new text from Dante popped up. She closed Instagram.

_It was my pleasure. You're even more gorgeous in person. I'm off Monday and if you don't work too late tomorrow, I'd love to take you out._

The pain in her stomach turned to butterflies and she smirked to herself, about to tap out a reply. But then his second text arrived:

_But if not, maybe another night would work better for you...? I was thinking just the two of us. I'd love to get to know you better, Beth._

Jeez, this guy was almost _too_ polite. She paused, unsure how to reply. She began to feel a little bad - Dante seemed like a really nice guy, and if it weren't for Jimmy and Daryl, she might be prepared to jump in and take this seriously. But she hadn't even been honest about working tomorrow, she'd just made up an excuse. And as awful as she was, she didn't have it in her to be blatantly bitchy with him. He'd been nothing but kind to her, he hadn't done anything to deserve an attitude or a rude rejection. Nor did he deserve to know about the two men she was currently wrapped up with in both mind and body.

Besides, if he wanted to take her out tomorrow, maybe that would give her something to actually look forward to. A date was innocent enough. And it would be a purpose for the day until she made it to Monday and got back to work. (If Daryl didn't end up texting her, that is. If he did, she could always tell Dante she had to work late or something.)

She tapped out a response and hit Send: "_Yeah, I think I'd like that. Not sure how late they want me to work tomorrow but I won't be off before 5. Is that okay?_" That gave her plenty of time to sleep in, nurse a hangover, and get all dolled up.

Before she could do anything else, a text from Abby arrived. Beth's stomach twisted and anger bubbled up from deep within.

_Ur so immature. U need to learn how to listen to ur frnds, the ppl who actually CARE bout u !_

She chugged the rest of her beer and slammed the empty bottle down on the coffee table, furiously typing out a response: "_Says the girl who's vague posting very obviously about me? I never judge you guys, I don't need your shit._"

She barely had time to take her empty bottle to the kitchen and grab a new one from the fridge before another text arrived.

_Uve done nuthn but talk shit abt Laurens bf. Ur such a hypocrite an u wont stop bein SO selfish. We dnt even kno u nemore Beth._

Tears brimmed in her eyes and she replied simply, "_K_."

A second later, Abby's final text appeared.

_Brittany doesnt want u at her birthday party next week. I dnt want in the middle of it, Im jst telling u. We can still b frnds but Britt doesnt want u coming over for a couple weeks._

Beth popped open her fresh beer and took a swig, simultaneously texting back, "_Cool_."

She tossed her phone onto the counter with a little more force than necessary and spun around, heading into the bathroom. The beer was already going right through her.

As she washed her hands, Abby's messages kept repeating inside her head. Her gut was churning, suddenly filled with a heavy hollowness. Those stupid girls were her only fucking friends, and now what? They wanted nothing to do with her for the foreseeable future? So she'd be alone in this big, terrifying city?

No one could stand her. They all thought she was insufferable.

_I'm so fucking alone. And I always will be. Because I'm awful… I'm so fucking alone and it's exactly what I deserve._

She dried her hands and paused, her glassy gaze passing over the medicine cabinet. Inside was a tiny black bag that held a razorblade. It would be so easy - just reach in, pull it out, slip her sweatpants down to her knees and sit down…

_No, I can't - Dante might see the cuts tomorrow night and think I'm insane. Or Daryl will see. And he'll get upset. He'll make me feel guilty again,_ she reminded herself. She grabbed her beer and took a long drink, then she shut off the bathroom light and went back to the couch.

But the tears pooling in her eyes wouldn't go away. She blinked and they fell down her cheeks. She roughly wiped them away, checking her phone to find nothing new. And it was still so early, barely past two. There was no way she'd be able to lie down and go to sleep yet.

She replayed the night in her head as rap music blared around her, trying to pinpoint the moment where she'd become so ignorant. But it was the whole fucking night, she had to admit to herself. She made terrible decisions like it was her job. Tonight had been nothing new.

_Fuck_, those bitches were so frustrating. And at the same time, they were the best friends she'd ever had. She didn't know what place she had if it wasn't with them. If they were at their wit's end with her, then who would be left?

She downed the rest of her beer and wiped away more tears as she went back to the kitchen for another drink. She opened a new beer and took a sip, walking over and sitting down on the couch.

Her thumb lingered over the screen of her phone, like she was about to do something. She wanted to check Daryl's social media, though she knew she wouldn't find anything. She wanted to text him again, even if it made her look needy and desperate. And a small part of her wanted to message Jimmy. To tell him how much he'd hurt her, how she couldn't stop thinking about him, how she still couldn't wrap her head around why he refused to talk to her. To tell him how cruel it was that he couldn't even give her the closure she deserved.

But she didn't do any of those things. She was fucking stupid, but she wasn't _that_ fucking stupid.

Well, mostly not. The beer began to catch up with her and the tears were still forming and falling, though she'd given up on wiping them away. Her head raged like a storm, bursting at the seams with conflicting emotions. She needed to release it all somehow. The spot beside her was so cold, so empty. And she really didn't want to go back into the bathroom and resort to that tempting razorblade. She didn't want to sit all alone on the couch either, drinking and crying over her pathetic life.

She just wanted someone to listen. To care. To understand and to assure her that she wasn't _entirely_ hopeless. Even if they didn't really believe it themselves.

The next thing she knew, she was holding the phone up to her ear and waiting for Daryl to answer.

* * *

He would've been mad if he knew exactly why she'd gotten into an argument with her friends. He would've picked out the little details, like he was prone to doing, and embellished them until they were the most important part of the story. And then he would've turned the whole situation around to make it all about her bad choices and how she was deceitful and a liar and only wanted to hurt him.

The full story almost slipped out as the tears rolled down her cheeks and she struggled to hold back sobs. Hearing his voice made her suddenly feel vulnerable. Wounded. Like she wanted to bare all her mistakes right there over the phone. But then she recognized the tint of judgment in his tone when he realized she'd driven herself home and just like that, her defenses flew up in preparation. So she caught herself and held the _whole_ truth inside. She simply told him why she was so upset and admitted how utterly alone she was feeling, how hopeless her life had become, how everyone was sick of her and how she had no idea how to fix it.

And it wasn't like it was anything he hadn't heard before, but she knew he understood in a way that no one else really could. Plus, he already didn't like her friends so he would happily assure her that she was right no matter what the situation might be.

Surprisingly, he wasn't irritated by her late phone call. Or her request for him to come over. In fact, he sounded almost eager when he promised to get dressed and head her way.

Her heart panged with guilt but she quickly drank it away.

The excitement of expecting his arrival faded moments after ending the call. Another wave of tears passed through her, the sobs wracking her body as a slew of old memories surfaced in her head. The same memories that always seemed to surface, especially in moments like this when she was feeling particularly unsure of her current place in Daryl's life.

Because all she could remember was the place she'd occupied for the last four years, where she'd grown comfortable and content. The place that used to soothe and calm her, that used to be her solace amongst the broken life she'd wanted to escape. The place that he'd gradually filled with broken glass and rusty nails until she could no longer stand without getting puncture wounds. The place he'd shoved her from before reaching out and trying to pull her back in once she'd finally climbed out and walked away on bloody feet.

The place that, inexplicably, she desperately wanted to be in again. Yet at the same time, _didn't_.

Half of her wanted him back - all the love they'd built, the trust, the unbreakable bond. She wanted to be _that person _in his life. She wanted the comfort of knowing he was hers, and the confidence of knowing she was his. She wanted to be Daryl's Girl again. She wanted to come home to him and wake up to him and know that he was close by at all times. She wanted to know that he was there, to feel his warmth and drink in every moment of his reassuring presence.

She wanted him to save her. Though she was no longer sure what he was _saving_ _her_ from.

And yet, the other half of her didn't want to slip back into that old place ever again. The other half of her recalled all the poison she'd ingested throughout their relationship. The damage left behind by all the mistakes she'd made… all the mistakes _he'd_ made. All the mistakes that she had excused or misinterpreted, and all the shit he'd continuously held over her head for years.

All the fights, the name-calling, the jealousy, the words that had been spat like venom and could never be taken back. Or _forgotten_.

Sure, she deserved most of it. Maybe all of it. But it still hurt like fucking hell.

"_You don't fuckin' care __**who**__ you hurt, all you've ever cared about was __**yourself**__. Yer selfish as selfish comes, Beth."_

"_Nobody likes a desperate bitch, least of all me. I ain't got time fer that needy, clingy bullshit. I don't want no part in yer stupid little girl drama. You already knew this, ain't nothin' new. You was jus' ignorin' it - but I don't play that fairytale shit, princess. __**Yer**__ the one that put me on a pedestal and got yer hopes up, __**not**__ me."_

"_I got better fuckin' things ta do'an sit around textin' you all day, sittin' on the fuckin' couch an' watchin' stupid shows with you. 'S all you ever wanna do anymore. Waste a my goddamn time."_

"_I always knew you was no fuckin' good fer me, girl. Shoulda stayed far away like everybody __**warned**__ me to. You just can't be alone 'cause yer so goddamn __**codependent**__. An' I was the first dumbass ya found ta latch onto."_

"_Oh, I don't __**fuck**__ you enough? 'S that yer fuckin' problem?! Maybe if ya actually __**tried**__ once in a while, I'd want to. What makes ya think a man wants ta come home after a hard day's work to find his woman in sweatpants every goddamn night?"_

"_Yeah, I fuckin' read it - 'cause yer always so fucking __**secretive**__ about it. An' now I know why. Yer __**sick**__. All that shit you write about in there, thinkin' I'll never fuckin' find out about it… Yer daddy would be __**ashamed**__ if he knew what you really thought an' how __**ugly**__ you really are, how much of a __**slut**__ you grew up up ta be. You ain't the girl I thought you was, Beth. I don't even __**know**__ you."_

"_I fucking __**loved**__ you - an' I thought you loved me, too. But you ain't even __**capable**__ of love 'less it's fer yerself. You were just __**using**__ me. That's all you've ever done. If I'm a ghost, then you ain't nothin' but another manipulative __**bitch**__."_

"_You jus' go around leechin' the souls outta every fuckin' guy you come into contact with, drainin' 'em till they're fuckin' dry and movin' onta the next. Yer pure __**evil**__, Beth. Yer a goddamn __**succubus**__!"_

"_Nothin' matters 's long as __**yer**__ happy, ain't that right? Fuck everybody else, fuck all the people who've bent over __**backwards**__ for you. So long as yer gettin' yer rocks off an' bein' chased after - 's that it? That's all you care about is gettin' some fuckin' __**dick**__ like some kinda __**whore**__?!"_

Sticks and stones might break her bones, but the words that had been burned into her brain made her want to open her wrists.

She'd loved him, she'd trusted him, she'd given him everything she had to give and more. She'd poured from an empty cup repeatedly only to be accused of hoarding more for herself. She'd stripped herself to the bones, revealed her cold and blackened heart, only to have it all thrown back in her face. And when she'd reached the end of her rope and tried to claim something of her own, some thread of a semblance of self, she'd been called evil. Selfish. Despicable. Insane. A _slut_ and a _whore_. A woman with no right to happiness.

And still, she was _so fucking_ _needy_. So goddamn helpless. And hopeless.

Then her phone vibrated in her hand and she glanced down through tear-filled eyes to see a new text message from Dante. She took another swig of beer and opened it.

_More than okay :) I'll text you tomorrow around 5. Goodnight, beautiful._

For a fleeting moment, she resided within another life as someone new and happy; a girl named Beth who liked to have a good time and meet new people, a girl who didn't have a million demons trailing in her wake. And she smirked as she texted back, "_Talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight_."

Even if everything else fell apart, at least she still had one person to fall back on. For now.

She downed the last of her beer and wiped away her tears, heading into the kitchen to set her empty bottle on the counter and throw back another shot of whiskey. Her head raced and the music around her made her want to dance. So she did, just for a minute. And when she grabbed a fresh beer and went back to the couch, singing along to the song that was playing, she found a new text from Daryl waiting for her.

_On my way._

Her chest surged with anticipation and suddenly, she wasn't thinking about the bad memories or the scars or the unforgivable shit. The only memories running through her head were the last couple of weeks: how easily they'd fallen into a routine, how comforting his presence had become and how reliable he was being. They hadn't argued or fought or really even disagreed.

She could tell he was making a point not to regress to his old ways, and it created a weird boundary between them that she wasn't sure he could sense. But _she_ sensed it. It was palpable. And it made the line between _friends_ and _lovers_ terribly blurry.

Yet she couldn't stop herself from feeling hopeful by the obvious effort he was displaying. Even if it would only be short-lived like all the times before. Somehow, this time felt _different_.

Or maybe she was just being naive. Maybe her desperation was shining through in the most predictable manner.

But what if he actually _could_ be different? What if he _wanted_ to be better? For her? He was the only one who could repair the wounds he'd created, so she'd have to be stupid not to let him try.

She sipped cold beer and texted back, "_Can't wait_" with four heart-eyes emojis. She glanced at the time and estimated how many minutes she'd have to kill before he arrived.

_But what if Jimmy comes back?_ That voice never failed to echo in the back of her head. Even though she knew it was impossible, that it was a completely pointless desire. She kept telling herself, _He's not coming back, he'll never come back. It's over, it's time to move on._ Yet there was always that tiny part that wanted to pipe up: _But what if it's not? What if he finally misses you enough to come back? Would you break Daryl's heart again for another chance with the guy who made you so happy for such a short time?_

She was stupid. So fucking stupid. Constantly hoping for something that would never be, repeatedly dreaming about something that had never really meant anything at all. It had always been doomed to fail. Why couldn't she see that from the start? She should've just stuck things out with Daryl. They would never have the gigantic rift between them now if it hadn't been for her leaving, for her giving up on him once and for all just to chase after an ill-fated illusion of love with a boy her own age.

But what if losing her to another man was the one thing that had knocked some actual sense into Daryl? What if he'd truly learned a lesson from seeing her slip out of his fingers? He'd always promised to be better, to try harder, but he'd never followed through. Probably because he knew she wasn't going anywhere, because he knew that she was just as hopelessly indebted to him as he was to her. She'd threatened to leave time and time again but when it came down to it, she always ended up running straight back into his arms. She barely managed to stray away from him before being reeled back in. By guilt or by love, she wasn't sure. But there'd always been something that had made her final goodbyes nothing more than empty threats. Like her feet were plastered in concrete whenever she tried to walk away.

And just as he'd never followed through with his promises to change and be a better partner, she'd never followed through with her threats of leaving. Until Jimmy came along.

Would Daryl have ever _wanted_ to be different or tried to change like this if it hadn't been for watching her walk away and move on? Was Jimmy nothing more than the catalyst for a fresh start with Daryl? A lesson to help them grow into the people they needed to be for one another, to help them learn how to grow together?

Were she and Daryl even _capable_ of growing together? Or were they destined to grow apart, into entirely separate people with separate lives and nothing more than memories of one another?

Was she only meant to be a lesson in Daryl's life? And she in his?

That was the most terrifying prospect.

_No,_ she thought. _That doesn't feel right._

In fact, it made her sick to her stomach. To think of parting ways with Daryl and never seeing him again. To think of building a life that didn't consist of him. To think of someone else taking her place as his most trusted and loved person. To think of some other woman lying beside him at night, running her hands across his bare skin, tracing the scars on his back…

The whole idea felt disgustingly wrong.

There was no Beth without Daryl, and no Daryl without Beth. That's how it would _always_ be, whether they wanted it to be that way or not.

It was a sense of certainty that filled the utmost bottom of her heart: they were connected for life, their very _beings_ intertwined in a way that could never be undone.

She was absolutely sure of it.

* * *

Her head - and heart - felt ten tons lighter from the combination of alcohol and upbeat music and the excitement of knowing Daryl was on his way. By the time he knocked on her door, she'd managed to stop crying and wipe away the remaining tears. She smiled as soon as she opened the door and saw him standing before her, familiar old butterflies coming to life in the pit of her stomach somewhere beneath all the beer and whiskey.

"You made it," she said, her lips curving into a genuine smile despite her red-rimmed eyes.

Even after all this time, he was the only one who could make her feel _that_ _way_ just from seeing him. Like all her nerves immediately vanished when he was nearby, all her muscles instinctively relaxing. He was here and that meant she was safe now. It meant she was no longer alone.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, pointedly locking it and assuring that it was secure. "Make sure ya keep this door locked. Got some sketchy-lookin' folks roamin' around outside."

She rolled her eyes, though she was still smiling and bursting with excitement at his arrival. She could ignore his overprotectiveness for the moment. "I know, they were bein' loud as hell when I got home. I always keep the door locked. This ain't my first time livin' away from home, ya know."

He nodded, but didn't offer any kind of subtle smile as she'd expected when he turned around and faced her. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Yeah well, you know I'm jus' paranoid."

He shifted his weight almost nervously and met her gaze briefly before glancing away. There was something about the tone of his voice, the expression on his face, the distant look in his eyes and his slightly tensed shoulders; she reflexively wanted to ask him what was wrong. But she decided against it. Maybe he was just tired because he'd woken up no more than half an hour ago. Or maybe he still wasn't feeling well. Maybe it hadn't been an excuse, maybe he really _had_ been sick.

She remarked light-heartedly, "I guess some things never change."

His only response was a grunt of acknowledgment and a clipped nod. Then he was slipping his boots off and leaving them by the door. He glanced around and she knew he was observing, taking in the details. She had no doubt that he'd noticed the empty beer bottles sitting on the counter, and the half-drank beer sitting on the coffee table.

"You feelin' any better?" She asked. "You didn't have ta come if yer still not feeling good."

He shrugged off his coat and laid it over the back of the couch. "Already here. Feelin' a little better. Ain't no big deal, just an upset stomach. I'm alrigh' now."

She nodded, her smile fading into uncertainty. Why was she getting the sense that he wanted to say something else? Why did he look like he was holding something in? Was it her overly sensitive pessimism or was he preparing to drop some kind of bad news? She knew him, she could read him like a book, and she could feel the palpable tension that was coming off him in waves. Even with all the alcohol fucking up her natural perception, she could see that there was something else bothering him.

But he'd come over. He was here, he was with her. And he was kicking his shoes off and making himself comfortable.

Her head was just being weird tonight, she decided. It was the combination of alcohol and high emotions setting her alarms off, that's all. There was no need to look too deeply into his body language - he was tired. And not feeling well. And he didn't need her creating problems where there were no problems to be found. She was determined to stay far away from her most obnoxious past behaviors. She'd already been called out for being overdramatic one time too many tonight. She didn't want to be like that with him this time around.

Okay, so maybe Daryl wasn't the _only_ one who was actively trying to be different, trying to be _better_. Even if it was in a very small way. She was sick of playing back all the things he'd said to her over the last few years and realizing he was right; she was sick of being a person who was completely blind to their own transgressions. She wanted to be better, in a way. Improved. But not for anyone else. Solely for herself.

Did that make her selfish? She wasn't sure. But if selfish meant that she would finally reach some level of satisfaction in the person she'd become, then selfish she would be. Regardless, she wouldn't be overdramatic or needy or clingy or desperate ever again. She wouldn't be codependent or manipulative. She wouldn't be a pitiful little farm girl with unresolved daddy issues. Never again.

She'd already _promised_ herself. The girl she'd been before Jimmy came along and opened her eyes was gone. For good. And she wasn't coming back. Because no one wanted her - that Beth had been weak and helpless and absolutely pitiful. And she'd been twisted and morphed into someone unrecognizable anyhow. There _was_ no coming back for that Beth.

She had to be someone _new_. Someone stronger. She had to be someone who could fix themselves, a woman who had no problem being an island all on her own.

Most of all, she had to figure out who the hell she really was. Because she'd grown so entangled with Daryl that once she'd pried herself out of the crumbling house of their relationship and away from everything they'd built (and demolished), she didn't even recognize the shell of a girl who finally emerged from the rubble.

Even now, she didn't quite know who it was that had made Jimmy fall in love so quickly and for such a short time, who had spent those blissful months with him. It all felt like a dream anymore, like she'd imagined the whole thing in some perfect play world of her mind's creation. That had been a different Beth, too. A Beth she desperately wished she could get back but who she knew was long dead.

So who the hell _was_ she anymore? Who was she without Daryl? Or _with_ Daryl? Who was she with anyone else? Who would she choose to be from here on out?

At times like this, she felt like the answer to that question may be hidden somewhere within the pores of Daryl's skin. Maybe it was nestled somewhere in the cradle of his arms, or submerged amongst his shaggy dark hair and the comforting scent of sweat and grease that emanated from his body. Perhaps it was tucked away beneath the love-stained sheets of his bed, where she had once reigned as Queen unchallenged. Sometimes, she swore it was peeking out at her from behind the veil of hurt and loss, from where it rested sunken within the depths of a thousand drunken nights and sober mornings.

But that old, familiar voice in the back of her head would always warn her: _Then what happens when he goes right back to his usual habits? When the anger and resentment finally comes out? When he tells you exactly how you've hurt him and how you'll never be able to repent for it? You think you won't lose yourself all over again? You think you won't want to drown yourself in the guilt and pain, no matter who you've managed to become thus far?_

Oh, she _knew_ she would. But she'd resist it. No matter how many defenses she put up, it would still hurt like hell. And she'd take it like an injury in a game: she'd cry a little and let herself be hurt, then she'd walk it off and go on to keep playing. Nonetheless, she knew exactly how it would unfold. And that's why she wasn't putting herself on the line again or getting her hopes up.

Well - she didn't _know_, but she'd predicted and prepared accordingly.

Daryl could no longer hurt her. She was made of impenetrable stone now. She'd learned from him in a way he didn't realize; she'd become strong like he'd always been. Uncaring in a way that she'd always envied him for. Over the last few years, she'd built up a wall based on the blueprints he'd used. She'd taken notes and finally taken action within herself to prevent the all-encompassing and inevitable pain. And when all was said and done, her weak and soft inner core had grown a thick shell around itself, calcifying from easily wounded flesh into hardened bone. He was no longer the be-all, end-all of her existence. She'd learned her lesson and she'd learned it _well_. No matter how things ended with him, she would never again rely on him completely to save her or pull her back from the edge.

She would never again allow him to be the compass for her life, the deciding factor for her mood and mindset, the solitary keeper of her heart and the unchallenged King of her emotions. Of her bedroom. Of her fucking _soul_.

No, that's what booze was for. And weed and coke and Xanax, and those little white pain pills that her friend Nate was always crushing up to snort. That's what guys like Dante were for, or the cute cook at work who always flirted with her… or if she could ever be lucky enough, _Jimmy_.

That's what the razorblade in her bathroom cabinet was for. She didn't _need_ Daryl. He wasn't the one in complete control anymore. _She_ was. He was here because she _wanted_ him to be here.

And, oddly enough, also because _he_ wanted to be here.

That was the part that really fucking got her.

**to be continued...**


End file.
